This chapter was edited by Gdiusx.

  25th day of the 7th Moon.

  Somewhere off the coast of Vale.

  Onboard the Silver Lady,

  Sansa

  “You missed a spot.”

  Myrcel, who in another life might have been a close friend and goodsister to her, sighed as she redid her stitching on the banner they were making. Rosamund, the handmaid, worked silently yet kept throwing gnces at the two of them.

  Both girls were decent with a needle but not half as good as Sansa was, of course. Even now, they looked like a pair of golden-haired kittens instead of fierce lions. They cked servants, and the two girls chaffed under the menial tasks they had never had to do before. Yet, despite the compints, tears, and whinging, the two of them did it all.

  Myrcel Baratheon was everything a nobleman would want in a daughter - diligent, kind, beautiful. Courteous and proud, any maiden would love to be a companion with such a girl. Yet none of that mattered much to Sansa, for she was Cersei’s daughter.

  “Quite the sve driver, aren’t you?” Her savior was looking at them with amusement, his books and rolls of parchment forgotten. Half a moon ago, she would have been gravely insulted by such a vile insinuation. Yet, now she knew it was just some of his odd speech again and merely raised her nose.

  “There is a difference between sves and hostages,” Sansa sniffed imperiously. “And they are of better use aiding us, especially since we ck servants. Furthermore, Percy…. Were you not supposed to be doing something yourself?”

  “Ugh, yes, mom,” Percy returned to his quill and parchment with an expression that reminded her of Arya when Septa Mordane forced her to work. As, the Septa was no more; the savage brutes calling themselves pious knights had chopped her head off, and her sister was gone, lost only the gods know where.

  The sound of giggling came from where the girls were busy stitching the Stark banner, and Sansa decided to let them enjoy their ughs. Her new handmaidens had proven themselves useful and loyal… and Sansa had gotten tired of being angry. Fury still boiled within her veins, but it was reduced to a simmer now.

  The first few days of their journey were a test of her temperament as she treated Myrcel and Rosamund as servants, having them learn how to cook, gut and clean fish, scrub the deck, clean Bckjack’s stall, attend her during bath time… Sansa wanted to humble them, or so she convinced herself.

  She was venting her rage on two girls who had done no wrong, she realized to her dread. The daughter of Eddard Stark dearly wanted them to rebel, to sh out, and give her a reason to make their life truly miserable.

  Yet, they did not. They did all she demanded without questions, if with some whinging and wincing, no matter how ridiculous her commands had become. At first, Sansa thought they were meek and craven, but Rosamund was quick with a giggle and had a witty humor to her.

  Myrcel had steel in her spine as she always looked her in the eye whenever she talked to her. There was something else in her gaze that Sansa had always noticed, not pity but sympathy and regret. The princess had been there when Joffrey had ordered the white cloaks to beat Sansa, but it didn’t matter.

  Arya, Father, Vayon, Jory, Septa Mordane, Porther, Heward, Desmond, Cayn, Wyl, Wayn, Varly, and all the other guardsmen… all sin. And for what? Even Jeyne Poole had been taken from her, and she shuddered to think what had happened to her friend.

  “Are you alright, Sansa?”

  “I’m fine, just a bit sleepy,” she deflected, looking at the sun crawling down the western horizon.

  Her gaze turned to the man she had been courting over the past few weeks. It was strange for a maiden to do the courting instead of the other way around, but her hand had been forced when she realized Percy had no idea about the proper customs or how to approach her. There was desire in his eyes, even though it had been held under a tight leash. He had been receptive to her approach, if somewhat hesitant and awkward. Sansa reminded herself to be patient, for whoever had taught Percy had clearly put all the effort into swordwork instead of proper customs. At least he never rebuffed her attempts at closeness, from chatting and spending time together to escorting her around the ship or the odd isnd they stopped in to exercise Bckjack.

  Yet even Sansa’s daring had a limit; courting was something she had never done before, and she felt as if she was wandering in the dark. Yet needs must; her family had been brought low by her own actions, and now they had too many and too strong foes. Sansa needed Percy on the side of House Stark, and the only way to make a proper alliance was through marriage. It did help that her savior was genuinely dashing, brave, gentle, and strong.

  “Well, I say we should call it a night,” Percy’s voice broke her from her musings. He gave her a sly grin as he fled the reading lesson, making Sansa groan. At the door of the cabin, he halted, turned around, and bowed theatrically to the two hostages. “Sleep tight, dies.”

  “Good night, Ser.”

  As always, the blondes were wary in their words, but Percy didn’t seem to be bothered as he left the captain’s quarters to sleep outside. He always cimed to enjoy sleeping outdoors and surrounded by the sea, yet Sansa knew his presence terrified the girls, causing her to sigh. Perseus Jackson was far too gentle of a man, yet she could not imagine a better person to wield such terrible powers. Turning to the two girls who looked like they were having a silent conversation, Sansa coughed loudly, and they scrambled back to return to the embroidery. Was this how Septa Mordane and Mother had felt when they tried to wrangle Arya to do her stitches?

  With a sigh, Sansa grabbed her own needle and a ball of gray thread and joined them.

  “We must finish the banner before we reach the Bite, lest we risk Lord Manderly taking us for pirates.”

  .

  .

  .

  Sansa woke up with a start, feeling the warm breeze on her cheek as the air rang with the cheery song of chirping birds. It was not a bird she had heard before. A gnce at her surroundings had her awake and alert. She was on a beach, the sand as soft as silk and glittering like gold under the sun, lush palm trees behind her, with a myriad of exotic birds with bright and colorful plumage.

  Even the sea was as calm as a pool of water, the waters as clear as a crystal. She could see the fish, sand, rocks, and reefs with ease.

  To her chagrin, someone had changed her clothing; for Sansa was now garbed in a strange gray dress. It was so scandalously scant and tight that it would make even whores blush. Gods, the st thing she remembered was finishing the banner with the girls and going to sleep. Was this a–

  “You have awakened. Good.”

  Turning abruptly at the melodic voice behind her, Sansa's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped at the sheer vision of beauty that met her. It was a young maiden, barely a year older than her, with silky, sun-kissed hair that flowed down to her waist like a waterfall. She had a crown of lilies on her head, with rge round honey-colored eyes on her beautiful face. Sansa couldn’t decide if she was six and ten or five and twenty. Her full lips were upturned into a gentle smile, and Sansa finally managed to drag her eyes downwards to inspect the rest of the maiden’s body.

  Her skin was a healthy tan that reminded her of Percy’s skin tone; her lithe body was dressed in a white dress that made the red-haired maiden flush. Even her smooth bare feet seemed to glide over the golden sand below as the woman came to face her.

  “You have been staring at me for a while. Am I to your liking?”

  The question caused the red-haired girl to flinch and shake her head. She had no idea who this beautiful maiden was, but she would not accept cheek from anyone, especially not someone her age. Sansa crossed her arms under her chest, subtly pushing up her pride and joy while fully utilizing her new dress, and raised her nose in the air as she looked down at the shorter girl.

  “You are acceptable, I suppose. I have seen much better every day, however, when I look in the mirror.”

  The beautiful maiden's eyes widened at her audacity. In hindsight, Sansa wondered if it was smart to antagonize a potentially dangerous being who had somehow abducted her from her ship and companions. Her worry was unfounded, however, when the girl snorted as she burst out in boisterous ughter. It was certainly not a sound a noble maiden was supposed to make, but Sansa found herself smiling along before giggling at the silliness of the situation.

  “Ah, you would have made for a fine court fool, if you were born a boy!” The maiden finally calmed down as she looked up at her. “Vanity and pride can be your undoing, Sansa Stark.”

  “You know who I am, yet I do not know you.” Sansa schooled her face into a mask. “It is very rude to kidnap someone and not even introduce yourself.”

  “I am certain you know very well about the courtesies of kidnapping maidens.” The sharp words made her take a step back with a grimace. “Regardless, it would not do for me to not fulfill the courtesies that millions espouse in my honor. I am known by many names; some call me the dy of the waves, and others confuse me for a mortal fox woman in the past who birthed many great men. It has been too long since I gained a conscience and freed myself from the weirwoods.” Sansa’s blood ran cold in a way that even Joffrey failed to incite with his cruelty as the maiden approached her and, despite her shorter stature, seemed to stare down at her. “Now, however? I am simply the Maiden.”

  .

  .

  .

  “How do you like your tea?”

  “It's wonderful. The finest beverage I've ever tried.” Sansa sipped again from the porcein teacup, enjoying the soothing taste of the hot drink. It had nothing in common with moon tea or what the cooks and maesters would make with herbs as cure for the chill. “I suppose it would be simple for a goddess to create food and drink.”

  “Only because this is your mind, my dear.”

  The Maiden giggled, and Sansa smiled sheepishly. After she had gotten over the shock of being in the presence of The Maiden, the goddess summoned a table and chairs with a teapot. The red-haired princess did not know how to feel about this situation. She had lost count of the amount of prayers she gave to the Seven, yet none of them were ever answered. Only when she was safe and in the company of a demigod did one of them deign to appear in her dreams.

  “You have something on your mind.”

  It was a statement said with iron surety. Sansa emptied her cup in a single swig and gathered herself. So many questions swirled in her mind, but one in particur bothered her the most.

  “You mentioned being freed from the weirwoods…”

  “It is a complicated matter that I am afraid would take far too long to expin and you might simply not fathom the intricacies of it.” The Maiden shook her head, and even this action was done with seamless, impossible grace. “I am certain you are interested in something far more personal.”

  “True. I have prayed so much to the Seven yet never did I receive even a sign, let alone an answer.” Sansa tried to keep her voice neutral but clearly failed, judging by the other woman's look of sympathy.

  “Oh, but I did hear it, my dear Sansa. I do not know about the others, for we are far more separate and different than you could imagine, but I did hear your prayers and even answered them to the best of my abilities.” Sansa wanted to retort, yet she paused in thought, allowing the maiden to continue. “The world was a stifling pce. My words could not be easily heard, and those who were worthy tend to be struck by misfortune.”

  “So, what changed?”

  “Your hero's arrival, of course. With his powerful divine soul, he somehow shattered the thickening veil separating mortal from the divine like a hammer through gss. For better and for worse, all of us can now reach into the world once more, and some who were asleep have awakened.”

  The words made Sansa’s spine crawl. “Why this isnd? Why me?”

  “This isnd… I took a glimpse of Perseus’ soul. Once, he had a maiden, and she lived on an isnd just like this.” The Maiden’s soft gaze was so piercing that it made Sansa feel naked. “As for why, you are worthy, but you certainly are not the most worthy.” The words stabbed into her heart for some reason. “There are far more worthy and pious maidens who pray religiously and live diligently. Mayhaps I could visit the more powerful of them in their dreams as well, but the few I have done so had sadly become affected, and their blessings were seen as curses by those around them.”

  “That still does not answer why.”

  The goddess brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Indeed. Unlike the rest of them you have the power and potential to make the biggest difference and to accept my presence without losing your sanity. Your spark has continuously grown, and you are close to the man who has caused chaos among the divine.”

  “So because I could talk to you, I am worthy?” It stung her pride that it was only due to her lineage and fortune in meeting Percy that… she pushed the mencholy down. Now was not the time. “Why now? I've been with Percy for nearly a moon now.”

  “You treated your captives well tonight.” The Maiden smiled, but it was a cold thing. Yet all the shame Sansa harbored of her own pettiness struck her like a tidal wave.

  “They were innocent from the sins of their family.” Even her own words sounded like a weak excuse in her ears.

  “True,” the Maiden nodded, face still cold, “and now that you acknowledged that and controlled your rage, I have deemed you worthy.”

  “Worthy of what?”

  “That remains to be seen. For now, would you acquiesce if we meet again in simir circumstances? I confess that I have not spoken to anyone so freely in so long.”

  It was so… surprisingly mundane, so human. Could even gods want for companionship? The gods were dangerous, and Sansa had learned things were not as they seemed the hard way. “Only this?”

  “For now.”

  “I am amenable to meeting with you again,” Sansa decided, pushing down her hesitation. Spurning a king could be deadly, and she didn’t even want to imagine how a deity would react to being scorned. “You have yet to tell me your name. Or should I keep calling you The Maiden?”

  The Maiden’s warm hand csped Sansa’s own, but an amused smirk spread across her soft lips. “Audacious. It seems like your man has helped you find your courage. You have a lot to learn… but for now, you can call me Calypso.”

  “Calypso,” Sansa rolled the name on her tongue. “It sounds… foreign.”

  “It is not my name, but I find it fitting,” Calypso ughed, confusing the red-haired girl. Or was it not-Calypso? “Now, I believe it is time for you to awaken. Should you survive your ordeal, you ought to find a welcoming gift.”

  “Wait-” before Sansa could ask anything else, the world began to fade, and not-Calypso was gone like a mirage in the wind.

  The isnd shook, and then Sansa opened her eyes, only to realize she was staring at the cabin’s ceiling, Myrcel and Rosamund clutching her tightly on each side. The nights had only grown colder as they sailed north, and her hostages had turned into her bedmaids. A small sign of trust the girls recognized, and it helped ward off the chill of night.

  The ship shook again, but it was far more abrupt than the swaying of the waves, waking Sansa fully as she felt all her hackles rise and every one of her senses screamed danger.

  A*H*M

  Same day.

  Outside Storm’s End,

  Davos

  Bck Betha had sailed through the stormy sea, filled with trepidation, only for Davos to nd at Storm’s End and find Stannis’ host swelled with Reachmen. A freak storm had crossed from the Narrow Sea overnd and into Bckwater Bay, yet it had not deyed him by much, though he did appear to have missed some excitement.

  The moment he had stepped on nd, the former smuggler had requested an audience with Stannis, but he had been told the king was occupied. It seemed the king was often occupied, for there was no time to meet a former smuggler.

  With Renly dead, many of the Storm and Reach lords had sworn fealty to the older brother, making the army camp a riot of colors. The mercurial weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the king had decided to send most of the fleet away to dock at Haystack Hall and other smaller, well-protected ports to the north. Only a handful of galleys had remained here, just enough to keep any boat from sailing into Storm’s End.

  The ancient yet mighty keep stood firm, mighty walls looming above, unbothered by the army gathered on its outskirts. Before Davos had arrived, the king had paryed with Cortnay Penrose, Devan, his son and one of the king’s squires, had told him.

  Stannis had demanded a complete surrender and offered mercy. However, the casteln did not budge and challenged the king to single combat.

  Penrose’s tongue had been barbed, for all the shiny and mighty lords seemed to loathe him. Insults, jeers, mockery - one of the younger red apple knights had fainted from fury at the abuse. If there had been no maester in the camp, the foolish man would have been the first knight to die to a taunt.

  And so, days had passed since Davos had come, and nothing had changed. A few younger lords were rearing to storm the fortress, but it seemed the king had decided upon a siege.

  “Since Renly died, he has been troubled by terrible nightmares,” Devan confided to him. “The maester’s potions do nothing… even Lady Melisandre fails to soothe him to sleep.”

  She had shared his pavilion at night, but no longer. It seemed even her prayers and fires had not proven enough. Or even… other ways of soothing Stannis to sleep. Regardless, Melisandre of Asshai remained in the camp, staring at the fires as if dazed. The air of mystique and allure clung to her like her red gown, but she seemed to pay the world around her no heed.

  Yet, Stannis had found another way to lull himself, it seemed, something… uncharacteristic. It was the first time Davos had seen his liege spar openly. Many a knight from the Reach and the Stormnds had even decided to test their mettle against him. Very few won, and very rarely - most when the king was exhausted.

  With all that fighting seemed to come a hearty appetite, for Stannis feasted as if every meal would be his st. Fish, steak, poultry - he devoured all with relish. Seven days prior, he looked like he had aged ten years, but now, there was a newfound liveliness to him.

  Yet today, the drudgery of the siege had finally been broken. Stannis had called for a war council in the command tent, demanding the presence of even his lowly Onion Knight. Davos felt out of pce amidst the sea of plumes, colorful cloaks, and surcoats of silk and velvet and silvery and gold-inid armor polished so well it could serve as a mirror. Now, they were gathered around a rge oaken table, covered with a sprawling map of the Seven Kingdoms.

  After they began, Lord Donnel Swann was the first to speak, “Your Grace, my brother has managed to escape the lion’s clutches from the capital, arriving in our camp just this dawn.”

  The words were met with a weak cheer and a sea of murmurs - quite a few had kin or kith held hostage in King’s Landing by the lion queen.

  “He must have a valuable word of the happenings in the city,” Lord Monterys Veryon said thoughtfully. “Far better than hearsay from those simple-minded beggars.” All sorts of odd hearsay had swarmed as of te, and none believed any of it, for each rumor was more fantastical than the st.

  “Indeed. Summon him here,” the king’s voice was ft. The Swann Lord scrambled over to call a servant to fetch for his knightly brother. “Any word from Ser Erren Florent and Ser Parmen Crane?”

  “None, Your Grace,” Lord Bryce Fossoway replied, a man cd in his velvet surcoat proudly dispying a green apple. “The rest of the Reachmen have yet to send ravens or come here to pay homage.”

  “So the Seven be-damned roses have chosen treason again.” There was no surprise in Stannis, but for the first time, Davos saw a hint of anger, of fury in him, the stoic facade of iron broken. His liege’s eyes seemed as bright blue as the summer sky above. And… it had been the first time in moons since Stannis had mentioned the Seven, let alone… cursed so openly. Judging by the surprised looks of the other lords, they had noticed, too. Melisandre’s gaze held a hint of displeasure, but she remained silent, watching. “Lord Florent, I pray for the safety of your son.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” The Lord of Brightwater Keep was an aging man, and Davos could see the red-gold snout of the fox peek through a wreath of blue flowers on his polished breastpte. “Erren knew his duty, and the Lord of Light shall watch over him.”

  “The Lord of Light…” Stannis shook his head, not finishing his thought. The former smuggler noticed the stag pin on his chest was no longer afme. “It appears your wisdom in sending those ravens to your contacts after Loras Tyrell and Randall Tarly left bore fruit.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace. Regretfully, my son Alekyne could only convince the Stormnds army to march for their rightful king. The rest of the Reachmen were content to fiddle their thumbs at Bitterbridge.” Alester Florent scowled before nodding to the Red Witch gratefully. “It was as Lady Melisandre had foreseen; my treacherous good son abandoned our bonds of kin in favor of the upstart stewards. Thanks to your warning, my dy, we managed to rally all those loyal to the king, and form lines before Tarly could take them by surprise. Mace Tyrell would not be foolish enough to force a battle that could prove disastrous when they cked cavalry or knights, even if they had the numbers. Without a cimant like Renly, he had no right to command another kingdom’s lords, and a temporary truce was reached. The Stormnds army, along with my forces, were allowed to leave.”

  The Red Witch tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and returned her gaze to the flickering brazier. So far, among the Reachmen, only Lord Florent appeared to truly believe in the foreign faith, yet the rest of the lords were skeptical at best and hostile at worst. Even the Queen’s Men had seemed less enthusiastic about the Red God, especially now that the king had expressed some hesitation. Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring had always made their voices heard, yet Davos had not seen them goad any of the pious Reachmen since his arrival.

  “When should we expect the rest of the army to arrive?”

  “After treating with the Fat Flower,” the Reachlord’s words thickened with contempt, “the Stormlords, commanded by your cousin Aemon Estermont, had taken the Roseroad to the Kingswood before diverting to one of the lesser roads for Felwood. They have the bulk of the supplies Renly had gathered. Even after force marching in case the Tyrells renege on the truce and attack their rear, I expect they will arrive there in a fortnight, but the weather does not make me hopeful. So much rain in the middle of summer is unnatural, and the rivers might soon flood.”

  More mutterings around the tent about troop counts, supplies, and other important matters. Even after being knighted for fifteen years, Davos still felt like an old, foolish smuggler with such talk. Put him on a boat and ask him to chart a course around the Stepstones, and he would be your man. Or sail a ship anywhere in the known world.

  Yet from what the smuggler understood, the king’s army had swelled greatly; fifteen thousand Reachmen joined their five thousand from the Narrow Sea, bringing it up to twenty thousand. The issue was that the Reachmen were all cavalry, proud knights and their squires, yet they cked supplies and their foot. For whatever reason, Renly Baratheon had not taken any Stormnder with him aside from his direct vassals and their retinues. Many of these lords, like the elderly Eldon Estermont, left their heirs with the bulk of the Stormnds army near Bitterbridge. Then, there were the Florent men, but those he learned were not many. The bulk of their forces were in Brightwater Keep, deterring any Tyrell retaliation.

  This was why Stannis was in no real rush to take Storm's End, for they needed to wait for the rest of their army to reform. There were also envoys sent to the Stormnder houses that had not mustered for Renly, calling on them to join their one true king with what troops or supplies they could spare. From what he gleaned, Davos understood that supplies were of paramount importance, for the Royal Fleet could not supply them efficiently with only Haystack Hall and Tarth as the closest ports.

  Then, there were also the Marcher houses that could not afford to muster too many troops or risk Dornish incursions. Doran Martell had called his banners, and he heard tell they were mustering along the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass.

  “Your Grace, we need to pn for what to do after we take Storm's End.” Lord Bryce Caron's decration brought the chatter to a silence. “With the Tyrells recalcitrant and unmoving, I say we bring the fight to them. You are the only righteous cimant, and if we leave them to their devices, we risk them allying with one of the other usurpers! The tyranny of the Roses as they deny the Reachmen from joining their rightful king must be answered!”

  The command tent was filled with cmor as every lord in attendance wanted their voice to be heard. The Reachmen were understandably wary of bringing the war to their nds, yet many of them were indignant at the Tyrell’s pressing their levies into their services, and not allowing the foot to join them. Davos knew that Stannis pnned to take King’s Landing after Storm's End, and the King was not one to change his mind.

  Surprisingly, however, Stannis paused, as if he truly considered changing his course. “What is the word from the Rivernds?”

  “The st we heard was Robb Stark plundering the Westernds and Tywin Lannister marching for Riverrun. This was moons ago, however.” The Hand of the King coughed as he rubbed his brow. “We have little to no contacts in the Rivernds, and all our knowledge came from the Tyrells. My son noted that since Renly's death, Mace Tyrell had been sending and receiving many ravens from the north.”

  “So he is either courting Stark or Lannister–”

  Before more could be said, a guard entered the pavilion. “Your Grace, Ser Balon Swann requesting entrance.”

  “Let him through.”

  The Swann knight entered the tent wearing a brown, tattered cloak over a suit of battered armor, all drenched by the pittering rain outside. The Stormnder seemed to have had his fair share of fighting, for there was steel in his gaze. Even looking like a haggard hedge knight with his unkempt beard compared to the shiny lords, his blue eyes seemed to be full of steel despite the heavy bags under them.

  “I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace,” the knight kneeled, head bowed down.

  A rare small smile crept on the king’s face. “Rise, Ser Balon. What can you tell us of the happenstance in King’s Landing?”

  “Madness and sorcery,” Balon Swann’s eyes turned distant. “I would have scarcely believed half of it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. I swear on my honor, I swear it by the Mother-”

  “Nobody questions your honor here, Ser,” Stannis raised his hand and waved over a page with a wine fsk for the knight. “Drink. Soothe your parched throat and tell your tale.”

  The knight bowed deeper still, grabbed the fsk, and took a generous swallow of wine. “It all began when the princess Myrcel-”

  “The girl is no princess, but a bastard born of incest,” Stannis interrupted, and the former smuggler could hear the grinding of his teeth. “Continue.”

  “As… Cersei’s daughter was sent off-”

  .

  .

  .

  Madness and sorcery indeed, many of the lords looked skeptical at the Swann knight and his tale. Buckler, Morrigen, Selmy, Caron, Horpe, and a handful of others seemed to trust the man. Davos himself did not know what to think; the king’s face was unreadable, and Melisandre was hovering at the edges of the dark tent as usual, silent.

  “So, the Lannisters lost their princess,” Stannis Baratheon’s fingers drummed on the table, awakening many from their stupor.

  “I had already left the city at the time, but I did witness their fleet returning from across the bay. Yet at every inn and vilge, the local bailiffs were shouting about a bounty on the heads of Sansa Stark and her pet sorcerer. There was a reward for the safe return of Myrcel…” Balon Swann tiredly rubbed his head, “Waters. A lordship and a hundred thousand golden dragons, they said.”

  Mutterings filled out the tent, but Stannis’ amused snort cut through it like a knife through butter.

  “Promising castles and nds they do not own, and coin they do not have. A hefty reward for a crown knee-deep in debt and an empty treasury. Unless the old lion can shit gold or fly it all by raven.”

  Laughter and jeers erupted in the tent; it seemed none here thought much of the old Lion of Lannister. Davos had heard the whispers - Tywin Lannister was an inept fool who couldn’t even beat a young boy, only good for sacking defenseless cities.

  Stannis raised his hand, and the ughter quickly died out. “Regardless, I have made my decision. Lord Hand,” Alester Florent straightened his back in attention, quill and parchment ready to write down the king’s orders. “Send word to Felwood. Ser Aemon is to secure the Wendwater Bridge and accept the Wendwaters’ fealty. They may be part of the Crownnds, yet they were historically Stormnders. If they refuse, he has leave to take their castle and nds. Once that is done, I want him to keep outriders in the Kingswood and near the capital. We must secure a route to King's Landing, and I do not want a single rat entering my woods without my knowledge.”

  “It shall be done, Your Grace. Is there… anything else?” The graying Lord Florent stood there hesitantly, like an errant child before his father, and Davos had to suppress a snort.

  “That will be all. You have done well, Ser Balon. Go now, get some rest, for you look in dire need of it. Meeting adjourned. Ser Davos, stay.” The lords quickly made themselves scarce, and the tent was empty… aside from Melisandre, who still lingered by the shadows near the brazier. “My dy, I wish to speak with my Onion Knight in private.”

  Face unreadable, the red woman bowed stiffly and left, her crimson cloak billowing behind her.

  “Your Grace,” Davos bowed and joined Stannis by the brazier vacated by the priestess. Even the servants were dismissed, and the guardsmen were ordered not to let anyone near the tent. This had been the first time the Onion Knight had seen his liege so secretive.

  “Melisandre had been irritable as of te.” The words were said without a hint of feeling. Even now, Davos couldn’t make what Stannis truly thought about the red priestess.

  “Has she? Did her Lord of Light not reply to her prayers?”

  “Possibly, for she cimed Storm’s End’s protections had gotten far more powerful over the past few weeks, and her visions had blurred.” Stannis opened an ice chest and gave him a goblet of chilled water before serving himself. “Now, I have Ser Balon Swann say the same day it happened, Stark’s daughter had escaped Cersei’s grasp.”

  “Surely… it’s a coincidence?” Davos grimaced and took a gulp of water to wet his lips. He was not a very pious man, but he held to the Seven as well as any other… and all this talk of magic and sorcery made him uncomfortable.

  “I have been having dreams, Davos.”

  The change of topic caught the former smuggler ft-footed. “Dreams, Your Grace? I do not understand.”

  “An odd thing, for I struggle to make any sense of it either,” Stannis admitted quietly. “Yet it was not a normal dream. It was so vivid, I can still see it when I close my eyes. I stood atop Storm’s End, and a titanic warrior cd in clouds and wind, wielding a bde of lightning, stared down at me.”

  “That’s… quite a specific dream, Your Grace,” the old knight’s throat went dry.

  “Indeed. His voice was like a rumble of thunder, and his eyes - a raging sea storm. Yet every time I close my eyes, I dream of him. And every time he speaks to me; A jumbled, rustic speech, but he spoke of legacy, of wrath, of grief.”

  Davos rubbed his balding head, feeling more confused than ever. “A sign from the gods?”

  “You could call it such.” The king’s voice grew hoarse. “I knew him, Davos. I had never seen such a being before, yet somehow… I just knew who he was. Elenei’s sire himself. Yet his face looked just like the statue of the Warrior in the Sept of Baelor.”

  Was it the sign from the Seven themselves, Davos wondered. Yet he dared not speak it out loud. Elenei? The old smuggler knew of no Eleneis but a washerwoman near Duskendale. Yet her father had been just an old crofter, not worth a mention by a king. Then… the Onion Knight’s eyes widened as realization sunk in. He picked up his cup and poured all of the water into his now-dry throat, yet it barely soothed him. Gods… even a man from Flea Bottom like him knew the story of the sea god and his daughter Elenei, who wedded the Godsgrief.

  But it had been nothing more than an old wives’ tale, and Davos was confused. “What would… a god want from mortals such as us?”

  “Many things, it seems,” the king’s face turned stormy. “It seems like all the gods are demanding, wanting more and more. It was like speaking with my elder brother, you know? Arrogant and disdainful, and nothing truly pleased him. Disgruntled, but not unhappy with Renly’s demise…”

  “How did Renly die, Your Grace?” Davos dreaded the answer but asked anyway.

  “His ambition killed him.” Seven above, what had his liege gotten into? “I miss him, you know? The boy he was, not the man he became. Yet… even this god was hard to please. They all want more and more.”

  Father, give me strength, Davos prayed silently. He was just… an old smuggler from Fleabottom. But he had given his word. His word to be always honest and leal to Stannis. “And… what did this one demand?”

  “Belief,” Stannis exhaled slowly. “I am to forsake the Lord of Light and pay homage to him and his name instead.”

  The Onion Knight wiped the beads of sweat from his face, this talk had been harder than rowing a small boat for hours at sea at night. “Him… the Warrior or the Seven?”

  “I ask much the same,” the king’s voice thickened with amusement. “Why would I forsake something I did not believe in anyway? He raged and thundered and even more so when I asked for a sign. The gods are greedy, cruel beings, and always take more than you offer and give little in return.”

  “Even R’hllor?”

  “Especially R’hllor,” Stannis’s face darkened. Davos dared not ask what the price had been. “There is power there, indeed. Yet even Melisandre dared not cim my daughter could be cured of her affliction.”

  The little princess… his liege had called sorcerers, healers, hedge wizards, maesters, and even warlocks from the four corners of the world, just to save his only daughter. In the end, they had succeeded, if barely. Shireen was still scarred by the greyscale, but alive and sane, unlike all the stone men exiled to the Sorrows.

  “And… does this god promise to heal Lady Shireen?”

  The king stared at the dying brazier, face taut. “Nay. He promised me a sign. Soon he said, he would grant me a boon, should I prove myself.”

  “Prove yourself?” Davos echoed, confused. How could one truly prove himself before the gods? The Septons cimed you ought to be pious and pray before the stone statues; Melisandre had her fires and burning…

  “With sword in hand, of course,” Stannis scoffed. Was that why he had been training? “By winning the challenge I scorned before. My grandfather, Lord Estermont, would advise me to siege my own castle. The other, older lords have much of the same opinions - spend a year or two here and starve the defenders out. The younger ones are more impatient and are rearing to storm the gates or even champion me in a trial by combat. Melisandre promises a way for Penrose to fall without battle, too. I have heard all of their opinions… loudly and many a time, since they insist on braying and braying loudly, and now, I shall hear yours.”

  Was that how Renly had fallen? Struck down by R’hllor and his dark magicks? Yet the smuggler had promised to be truthful.

  “A duel is a dangerous, risky thing.” And better than the red priestess and her dark sorcery. Davos wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. “But… a lengthy siege will give your foes time to rest and regroup. I think you should fight, Your Grace.”

  “And why is that, Ser?”

  The onion knight would not lie, not to Stannis, not now, not ever. “Because… it will show your men you are willing to fight and die for your own cause.”

  “The lords have already bent the knee and owe me obedience.” Stannis ground his teeth. “They all turn their cloaks when it suits them; why would I fight for them?”

  “Nay, not the lords, Your Grace. For the knights, the men-at-arms, pikemen, bowmen, the small, common men who would be doing the fighting and dying in your name. All of them would fight a little harder, knowing Your Grace would be willing to put his life on the line.”

  Before Davos could say further, an urgent knocking on the pavilion’s pole caught their attention. The king’s blue eyes hardened like two chips of sapphire as he looked at the entrance, where a guard’s head was poking through. “What is it?”

  “A parley fg was seen on the castle’s gatehouse.”

  “Have my steed prepared.”

  .

  .

  .

  It was noon, and Davos sat atop his horse with the rest of the lords behind their king below the walls, a seven-colored parley fg fluttered above them, ten feet out of arrow range from the looming walls of Storm’s End. The smuggler looked out of pce here, garbed in wool, boiled leather, and a heavy chainmail. Everyone else was cd in silk and gilded steel.

  Everyone but Stannis, whose armor was pin, cking in any ornaments, aside from the circlet of red gold atop his head. Melisandre was not far, mounted atop her mare, cd in red velvet and watching.

  The wind and rain had finally abated, but storm clouds still hung above them, as if waiting for something.

  Many had cmored to champion the duel for the king, but Stannis had been adamant to be the one to do it. Yet… it only earned the respect of the lords. Davos was reminded that despite their pomp, being a lord was a martial thing first and foremost.

  The heavy gates groaned open, and Ser Cortnay Penrose marched out atop his sorrel stallion, this time cd in a pin suit of heavy armor, a young squire trailing beside him, carrying his personal banner.

  The bald knight inspected the gathering of lords, his gaze briefly halting on his elderly father before moving on.

  Twenty feet from Stannis, he finally halted, head raised high. “Finally found your backbone, your grace?”

  Several lords bristled, only for Stannis to raise his hand, silencing the clearing. “I merely hoped you would see sense, yet you persist in your folly. Terms?”

  “Should you prove victorious, the garrison shall surrender,” Cortnay’s voice turned heavy. “Should I win… well, your cause ends with you, does it not?”

  “Insolent, but not untrue. Your terms are accepted.” The king dismounted, and one of his squires led the horse away. “Let us duel, then.”

  Penrose also dismounted, forgoing a helmet, and the other knights and Penrose’s standard-bearer moved back, giving them more space. Stannis, too, forwent a helmet, but when he drew his bde, Davos couldn’t help but notice - it didn’t glow. It wasn’t Lightbringer that the king wielded, but a pin longsword of castle-forged steel, looking no different than the one used during his spars.

  Both warriors gripped their longswords with both hands as they circled each other, taking a measure of each other and looking for weakness.

  A minute passed, and tension only mounted as the bdes had yet to csh. Penrose was the first to move, throwing a savage overhead strike that Stannis parried downwards with little effort. Penrose did not falter as he retracted his sword before he overextended and stabbed at the king, who once more parried the bde sideways and retaliated with a cut to the shoulder. The regur steel did naught but dent the casteln’s heavy pte, and judging by Penrose’s grimace, it most likely left a bruise. Ser Cortnay retaliated with a backhanded slice, aiming to cut at the king’s side, yet Stannis backstepped and allowed the sword to pass within inches of his armor before he lunged with a stab at Penrose’s open torso.

  The stab did not pierce the chest piece, but so strong was Stannis’ strike that he sent the other knight tumbling back a few feet. The king did not allow him to recover as he took to the counterattack with fast and powerful blows that Penrose could only desperately block as he held his sword like a quarterstaff. Stannis continued to push the casteln, forcing him into the back foot. The king’s face was a taut mask of determination while Ser Cortnay continued to lose ground, allowing Stannis to strike his sword in the same spot several times until, with a final savage strike, the king broke the casteln’s sword in half, ripping it off his hand from the power of the blow. Davos stared in wonder as Stannis kicked the casteln in the chest, bringing him to the ground and holding his sword over his neck.

  “Yield.”

  Everyone held their breath as the fallen knight stared at the sword at his throat, then the king. “I yield.”

  The gates opened with a groan again as the garrison came out to surrender. A vicious gust of wind deafened the cheers and hollers of the lords, and all the riot of silk and velvet cloaks whipped in the squall like banners.

  Yet Davos only had eyes for the sky above. The clouds were bck and churning with power, flickering with light as if lightning was about to strike. The hairs upon his neck and arms all rose as something rumbled from above.

  A fsh of light blinded the onion knight as the world turned deaf.

  Davos couldn’t hear a thing but the ringing in his ears. The horse beneath his hips grew uneasy, and the knight of onions had to use all of his strength to rein the beast blindly and struggle not to fall off the saddle.

  Seven above, had lightning struck them?!

  Suddenly, he could hear neighing in the distance. No, not in the distance; Davos realized his hearing was finally returning. By the time his gelding had calmed down, he could see blotched spots, which slowly turned into a mottled picture of colors. It took him some time to make out the surroundings. Many of the lords were gone as their steeds fled. Some had fallen or dismounted their horses, rolling on the ground and clutching their ears in pain.

  And Stannis… the king, stood there like a statue, sword raised to the sky… it glowed with a power that made Davos’ skin crawl in a way that Lightbringer didn’t as arcs of lightning crackled along its length. Many stared with awe and confusion; others, including Davos, were rubbing their eyes. More importantly, Penrose had gotten up from the ground, his eyes wide in awe as he knelt, and id his broken bde at His Grace’s feet.

  Bub3loka