FIC: Red Riding Hood and the Wolf 2/2 (Shireen) for sternflammenden
Recipient: sternflammenden
Title: Red Riding Hood and the Wolf
Author: coaldustcanary
Rating: All Ages
Characters: Davos Seaworth, Stanis Baratheon, Shireen Baratheon, Dickon Tarly, Sansa Stark, Rickon Stark, Edric Dayne; Pairings - Shireen/Dickon Tarly, Shireen/Rickon, (implied) Stannis/Davos
Word Count: 18,192
Summary: The Lord of Rainwood tells the tale of a princess and her noble knight. And a wolf.
Warning: Off-screen violence against children
Author's Note: Many thanks to our gracious mod who was patient with my extremely late story. I was taken-in by a request to write a Shireen-focused fic, and also inspired a little by my recipient's delightful fill on the fandom kinkmeme that drew on the story of Bluebeard. This draws on a slightly different legend...
Part 1/2
High summer made for plentiful daylight, and even the massive, unwieldy party traveled far, for many candlemarks each day. It was not long before the cavalcade took on a routine not entirely dissimilar from that within the Red Keep, in terms of keeping every man fed and sheltered. Few things had changed about the king since the wars, and it had taken several days before his servants had entirely convinced him not to take part in the raising of his tent each evening, and so Davos found himself attempting to engage Stannis in conversation as they sat over a light meal at a table, chairs and beneath an awning hastily erected as they paused to make camp on the fifth night, if only to give the men a moment’s peace in their duties. Some distance away, local smallfolk from the local village were gawking at the activity going on as camp was built for the night, while others were doing a brisk business in trade - foodstuffs and some small crafts were haggled over, and certainly the local inn’s few whores would be plying their trade tonight among the tents lining the Kingsroad.
Davos still marveled a little at the controlled chaos of the camp arising around them, but the king’s countenance was stormy, and he ate almost perfunctorily from the plate, and barely touched his winecup to his lips. And when Edric Dayne and his sworn men ride by on their delicate sandsteeds, the beasts frolicking like colts despite the long journey and the men laughing and jesting, Davos would nearly swear he felt a chill on the summer air as the king’s expression turned to stone.
“They are lucky the Hand stays my own, else I would have sent them packing back south, with whips hard on their heels all the way to the Prince’s Pass,” the king muttered. Hearing news of Edric Dayne’s warning to Davos on the morning of the journey’s beginning had tested Stannis’s limited patience.
“Your Grace, I am certain you are best served by putting the matter from your mind. Would you want such a man as Shireen’s husband? I think not. He ought to have been far more gracious, but we can be glad he has made his intentions known.” In truth, there was a part of Davos that appreciated the Lord of Starfall’s candor, and respected it. But Stannis certainly saw it as a slight.
“I mislike this plan more and more. It feels tawdry, like some sort of game,” Stannis complained.
“Shireen hardly considers it to be play, Your Grace. Today, as we rode, as Estermont promised her a gift of gold jewelry, she turned the conversation into a near-interrogation of the man on taxation laws of the kingdoms. And at dinner yesterday evening, upon hearing Rowan describe the beauties of Goldengrove, she questioned what he knew of his lands’ incomes and what crops were grown by the smallfolk. And she does it all while smiling,” Davos said. Stannis did not smile, but something a little softer touched the angles of his face. The princess was not neglecting putting each of the men through their paces, though after Davos had told her that Ned Dayne would not be swayed, her interactions with him had become somewhat more cursory and distantly polite.
As if conjured by their conversation, Shireen and Dickon Tarly appeared, riding along the small creek not a stone’s throw from the road. The princess’s chestnut palfrey ambed amiably alongside Tarly’s own blood bay, the two horses matching each other stride for stride. They were followed by a white shadow - Devan, in his Kingsguard cloak, his pale gray mount reined back a short distance, giving the princess and her escort a small amount of privacy. Tarly cut a handsome figure in a green and brown doublet of a simple cut, the plainness of it a contrast to his handsome features, bright blue eyes and curling dark hair. Over his shoulder, the massive two-handed Valyrian blade of his family rested easily across his back. The princess wore a yellow dress cut for riding, and her long red cloak was draped over her gelding’s hindquarters, the hood trailing down her back. Ser Dickon was relating a story, gesturing with his free hand, the other loose on his horse’s rein, as he sketched figures in the air and then made some motions that Davos took to be a description of a swordfight, while Shireen smiled, and even laughed at some particular word or three.
“…and when the third lance took Ser Duncan Rhysling on our final pass, his green squire, Tywin Graceford, cried out, “Duck!”, all afraid. But it was just a little too late, and Duncan found himself on the ground, and with a new nickname. It would not be very noble of me, but I confess I laughed when some took up the cause of quacking in his general vicinity.” Dickon’s voice had become low and half conspiratorial as he related the end of his tale, but Davos heard in any case, as the pair of them rode up quite close to where he sat with the king. He pulled up his horse and bowed low from the saddle to King Stannis.
“Your Grace, please forgive me for jealously guarding my time with your gracious daughter. She humors my terrible stories, and that I cannot resist. How did you find the road, today?” he inquired politely.
“Stony,” Stannis replied, direct as ever. “Much the same as yesterday. But I am pleased with our progress. If you would leave us now, Lord Davos and I would speak with Shireen.” It was not a question, not from Stannis. Not from a king. Tarly bowed once again with alacricity.
“Your Grace. Lord Hand. Princess.” The final acknowledgment was made with just a touch of softness, a smile extending into his eyes as he gazed at Shireen for a long moment, and then turned his horse away to leave them in relative privacy. Shireen dismounted from her horse and turned him over to a groom with a pat, and strode toward the awning where her father and Davos waited, slipping her riding gloves from her hands. Devan took up a position with the two other members of the Kingsguard in the immediate vicinity, and Shireen fell lightly into the chair that a servant brough forward for her, sitting between the two men at the table and plucking a sliced piece of fruit from the platter.
“Father. My Lord Davos. What are you plotting?” The crisp bit of apple disappeared into her mouth, and she looked inquisitively at both men as she reached for a cup of wine.
“Not plotting. Pondering,” Davos said gently. “Wondering if all of Lord Tarly’s stories are as terrible as he claims.” Stannis remained silent, watching his daughter through half-lidded eyes.
“Rather, they are. But, presuming they are true, he is a knight of some renown in the Reach, and has unhorsed most knights there, and a good chunk of Dorne, besides.”
“Tourneys are play,” Stannis warned. “And that only at the best of times. At worst, they are terrible distractions for good warriors, tangling them with lesser men in constant mock-battles that mean nothing but an excuse for transient glory and celebratory drink.” While he agreed with the king in many respects, Davos couldn’t help but wonder how much of that resentment was based on the love that his brothers had once held for tourney games. He had heard tales of Robert wading into melees with gleeful shouts, and Renly had unhorsed many opponents in his day. The king was ever a hard man, but sometimes he was at his hardest when reminded of his brothers.
“Very true,” Shireen admitted. “But he would not tell me the story of how he slew half of the Oakwood outlaws for fear of damaging my delicate sensibilities.” A touch of dry amusement tinged her voice.
“That story I had to have Devan dig out of one of his men, with judicious application of drink. In truth, Ser Dickon is not just a tourney knight. He is as capable with that greatsword in real battle as any man. His father taught him well.”
“Do you respect him?” Stannis asked. “Not love, I do not care for your feelings, but do you believe that can you respect him, trust him, rely on him? Would he be as loyal to you as Davos has been to me, because you can earn it of him, not buy it?” His questions were cutting, even demanding, and it was clear he expected an answer.
“I am certain of it. He is everything a knight should be, you see it, don’t you? His men respect him fully, he has managed his family’s lands well for years, now, and he would be a strong leader for the kingdom,” Shireen said confidently. Stannis’s scowl only deepened.
“You will lead these damned kingdoms when I am gone, not your consort.”
“He will be king. If a king’s wife is a queen, a queen’s husband is a king,” she said briskly. “Besides, do you expect me to lead the charge if it comes to war again?” Davos found himself unsettled by her answers, and the careless, humor-tinged dismissal of her future responsibilities.
“Of course not. But a ruler leads, and makes the final decision in war after hearing the counsel of those he trusts. You will still have that responsibility,” Davos said, before the king could say it less graciously.
“I don’t see why Dickon couldn’t do it. Men will listen to other men in matters of war better than they would ever obey me.” There was something petulant about her expression, as if she had expected this conversation would go differently. It was not a familiar thing for Davos to see on her face. The king’s expression made stone seem soft in comparison.
“Because he is not my child. You are, and you will lead after me. This is what I have been preparing you for your entire life, Shireen. You will not hand your birthright off to a near-stranger because he has a pretty face and you think it would make your own life easier. Nothing about ruling is easy. That is your lot in life, and you cannot shirk it.” Stannis fixed his daughter with a hard gaze, his body rigid in his chair, as if he was holding himself back from standing and looming over her to deliver his opinion. He had never needed to, in the past. Shireen had long been a sensible child - never biddable, no, but always sensitive to reason and in agreement with her father’s cool temperament and perhaps cynical view of the world. In this, however, she had formed her own opinion.
“And why must a thing be made harder in order to be right?” she snapped, a flush rising in her cheek at being rebuked, standing abruptly, her skirts swinging and her chin high. “I am only thinking of what will be best for the kingdom.” The king’s reply was dismissive.
“No. You are thinking of what will be best for yourself.”
As the princess turned on her heel and strode away, Daven hurried to follow her, and Davos stifled the urge to call after her. This would not be settled in a yelling match, and that was what was like to erupt if he forced her to remain. Stannis remained still a moment longer, and if surprise was an expression he knew how to show, it might have been seen on his face.
“I will be in my tent. I’ll have my dinner there, I’ve had enough of this picnicking.” Davos stood and began to follow, pitching his voice low.
“Your Grace…”
“Alone, Lord Davos. That will be all.”
As the king disappeared inside his pavilion, Davos poured himself a fresh cup of wine and settled back into his seat to think.
*****
“The princess isn’t…being a very good princess,” Dalla said dubiously. Both she and Alys seemed unsettled by the turn the story had taken.
“Oh?” he said. Alys shook her head.
“Well, a princess is good, and kind, and makes the right decisions for her people. A knight protects the princess, and loves her, and helps her, but he isn’t a princess. A knight would make a very bad princess,” Alys said gravely. Rolly rolled his eyes, but held his peace.
“As it happens, I think you’re quite right. A knight would make a terrible princess.”
*****
The journey to Winterfell was long and arduous. Each day dawned bright, and they made good progress in mild summer weather, but the cold impasse between Stannis and Shireen was frightening to behold. With the king unwilling to rest at a friendly keep for a few days at any point in the journey, it became all too simple for Stannis and Shireen to avoid one another almost entirely. More often, the princess chose to ride in the wheelhouse, attended by one or more invited young men or women on the journey, their number always including Dickon Tarly, holding a small sort of court there. The king always rode, frequently lapsed into cold silences, with Davos at his right hand. Most of the rest of the party seemed not to notice the changes that had taken place. Many, Davos noted sourly, seemed pleased that the princess rode safely ensconced in the wheelhouse instead of tearing about as the fearless horsewoman, her cloak streaming out behind her like a banner, as she had for the first week of the journey. Still, finally the day came when an outrider came galloping back to the main party on a sweat-soaked horse.
“Winterfell will soon be in sight, Your Grace.” Stannis only nodded silently to the man, who bowed low and retreated. After a few moments, he turned to Davos.
“Send a fresh rider ahead so that the household will be prepared for our arrival.” Davos saw to it, and within minutes, a young man on a fast, fresh horse galloped ahead of the slow-moving mass of travelers.
“It will be good to stay within a keep’s walls again, Your Grace,” Davos observed, hoping that this change would draw Stannis out of his silent solitude of the past weeks.
“It might be,” was the king’s only reply, yet it was enough to let more words escape.
“You have spoken with her about this foolishness.” It was never a question. He should learn not to expect it.
“I have. I don’t know whether the boy has convinced her that she would be better off with him doing things for her, or whether she’s come to the conclusion on her own, but she’s dug in her heels on this score. She is convinced that the only way she will be respected is to have a husband take on many of the duties of the realm. She would rather placate them in advance than find herself in a position of weakness, I fear.”
“It’s the damn boy,” Stannis growled. “She never thought this way before he suggested it to her. I am certain he did it with every courtesy, offering himself humbly as her servant, but it makes no matter. She will give him rein to rule if she gives him control of those things better fit for men, and encourage the petty lordlings to curry favor with one or the other of them. A realm can have but one ruler.”
Silence descended over the men once again, as Davos could find nothing to disagree with in the king’s words. As they rode, the sun rose high overhead, lending warmth to the cool northern air, and it was not long before Winterfell came into sight in the distance. The imposing keep had been largely rebuilt much as it once stood, but even a decade and the work of hundreds of men was not enough time to replace all that had burned. The Great Hall and main keep were repaired, though, and some towers stood. They would rest within snug walls, tonight.
As they rode on, soon activity could be made out - men the size of ants moved along the walls, and smallfolk pointed and flocked to one another as the massive train of people approached. The King’s Gate was winched open to allow them to pass, and they rode through the small town that huddled up against the side of the keep to approach it. The trailing part of the travelers - a portion of the men at arms and supply wagons - pulled to the far side of the Kingsroad to set up their own camp. Their numbers would strain even Winterfell’s space, and so Davos had directed them thus. It was still a hundred and more strong who entered the outer walls, with the king at their head. Within the keep wall, a party awaited them in the expansive courtyard, with Sansa Stark standing ready to greet them.
She was hardly any older than Shireen in years, but much older in every other way, it seemed. Twice widowed - once from the Imp, and again from Ser Harold Hardying - she remained childless, and though she had spent much of the wars within the safety of the Vale, she had returned to Winterfell not long after the death of her second husband, and she had not yet chosen to remarry. Being Lady of Winterfell, however, seemed to suit her well. As the royal party dismounted, she curtseyed low, and all of the various high-ranking servants behind her followed suit. Davos scanned the crowd and saw no evidence of Winterfell’s lord.
“Your Grace, you are most welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa said, her expression warm.
“Lady Sansa, your hospitality is much appreciated on our long journey,” the king replied. He did not smile, or seem warm, but there was a sincerity to his interaction with the young woman - as well as a directness.
“Where is Lord Rickon?” Sansa cast her eyes downward, her expression that of embarrassment, though Davos had a suspicion it was hiding feelings of irritation.
“Rickon went hunting this morning, and has not yet returned. I have sent men to find him in the Wolfswood, but no one knows the woods as well as he does, I am afraid. They may be some time in finding him.” As Sansa and the king conversed, the members of the party who had been riding in the wheelhouse had emerged and were walking up behind them. Shireen laughed softly at some jest of Dickon’s, and held his arm as they walked across the courtyard.
“Princess Shireen, you are most welcome, too,” Sansa said, curtseying once more as the princess approached. Her clever blue eyes evaluated her companion quickly, but Shireen spoke before Sansa could.
“This is Lord Tarly, who is our guest on this long journey.”
“A pleasure, my lord,” Sansa said, a bit of surprise showing on her features. “You are not…you must be Maester Samwell’s brother.” Dickon smiled broadly, and bowed.
“You are correct, my lady. I have not seen him in many years, and that is a part of why I have come on this journey. A small part,” he added, turning his grin on Shireen, who blushed somewhat. Nothing changed on Sansa’s expression, but Davos had no doubt she saw significantly more to the exchange than she let on. Finally, the lady of the house turned to him, and when she attempted to curtsey, he caught her hand and hugged her gently.
“My Lord Hand,” she began, and then returned the embrace. “It is very, very good to see you, as always,” she murmured quietly.
“Still as wild as ever?” he asked her softly.
“As wild as ever,” was her only reply.
As if on cue, a rider entered from the Hunter’s Gate at a rapid pace, and hard on the horse’s heels was a massive black direwolf. The Lord of Winterfell had returned. A groom rushed forward to take the horse and the deer carcass slung over the saddle’s cantle as the rider jumped to the ground and laid a hand on the shoulder of the massive lupine beast as if to calm it. Davos was taken aback - the boy was entirely a man grown, even at only fifteen.
Rickon’s red-brown hair was thick and long, tied back from his face with a simple knot, and he had a short, rough beard of the same color. He had not grown into a particularly tall man, but he was strong, and the sword at his hip rested there easily. If the deer was any indication, he knew how to use the bow slung across his back as well. He might look a Tully - and he resembled his uncle Edmure to a startling degree in some ways, Davos realized in that moment - but this boy was every inch a Stark, otherwise. As he always had been. He strode across the courtyard much the same as the prowling, black wolf at his heels.
“Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell.” At Sansa’s soft cough, he bowed, somewhat too fast, as if it was an action he felt uncomfortable making.
“What a beast!” came the muttered comment, barely audible, but Davos heard it. It was Tarly speaking, he knew, and when he glanced sideways, the young lord looked caught between horror and fascination at the sight of the massive black wolf. Shireen, for her part, looked taken aback as well.
“Lord Stark, I am glad your hunt was successful.” Stannis allowed a little dryness to enter his tone, and Rickon had the good grace to look somewhat chagrinned, though Davos didn’t see a hint of regret in his eyes.
“I would offer you the venison tonight, Your Grace, but my sister has organized a much more southron feast in your honor.”
“I am sure whatever the Lady of Winterfell has organized will delight us. We have been too long on the road,” Davos said. He stepped forward and grasped the boy’s arm.
“It’s good to see you well, Rickon. You’ve grown a great deal.” The return clasp was strong and firm, and for the first time, the boy actually smiled.
“Davos, I mean, my Lord Hand, I’m glad to see you. It has been a very long time, hasn’t it?” His expression was at once happy and a little sad. At his side, the wolfs ears tipped backward, and its expression became somewhat uneasy.
“Too long. But, there will be time for that. First, I ought present you to the Princess Shireen.” Davos turned, gripping his shoulder companionably, and then gave a little surreptitious push to remind him to bow.
“Princess, may I present Lord Rickon Stark.” To his credit, he bowed at the pressure, this time just a little more smoothly. Shireen studied him frankly with curious eyes, and then smiled a little.
“My lord, I have heard so much about you from Lord Davos. I am pleased to be able to meet you, finally.” Her gaze slid sideways to the wolf.
“And your…friend.” Rickon grinned a little, a friendly expression on most, though there was a hint of a threat to it on his face, and buried his hand in the massive beast’s black fur.
“This is Shaggy. We’ve grown together, and we have an understanding,” he offered. The wolf stared fixedly, first at the princess, and then at her companion. Tarly did not seem particularly amused.
“Is it safe?” he inquired, looking dubious.
“Safe? No.” The feral smile on the young lord’s face deepened a fraction, and he turned away to address the king.
“Your Grace, if you would come with me, I would welcome you properly, with bread and salt, and wine to wash the thirst from you.” Taking his sister’s hand, he gestured for the king to precede him into the Great Hall, trailed by the wolf.
*****
“Brilliant.”
“Yes, it rather was, Rolly.”
*****
Somewhat to Davos’s surprise, Shireen took to Winterfell comfortably, and seemed immediately at ease. When he made mention of it, she had laughed at him, an easy smile on her face.
“Don’t forget, my lord, I spent the wars on the Wall itself. Nothing about the North unsettles me, least of all its greatest keep. It is different than King’s Landing, but hardly more remote than Dragonstone. It is good to have a little taste of all parts of the realm.”
Ser Dickon, however, seemed ill at ease, and everything about Winterfell and its peoples seemed only to make it worse. The worship of the Old Gods by both the Starks and the smallfolk, the foreboding presence of the Wolfswood just outside the outer bailey of the keep, and most of all the direwolf that followed Lord Stark’s every movement. Shireen tried to coax him into shedding his anxiety, but he moved like a man expecting an attack at any moment, whether he was eating in the Great Hall or walking the walls. Even at breakfast, with most of the highborn guests eating together, he looked on edge. Finally, seemingly at her wits’ end, on the third morning of their stay, the princess invited Tarly to go riding with her later in the day.
“Lady Sansa told me that she’s expecting several lords to arrive today, perhaps we’ll meet some of them if we ride out a little,” she offered with forced gaiety. With a wan smile, Dickon agreed, and Davos leaned toward them.
“Do not leave without at least one, and preferably two members of the Kingsguard, princess,” he reminded her, briefly making eye contact with Devan, who sat over his breakfast a few places down the long table. He nodded soberly, and Shireen sighed.
“Of course, Lord Davos. Ser Devan has been remarkably attentive during this journey.” Davos chose to ignore the dry edge to her voice in favor of cracking the shell of his egg and offering a greeting to Ser Randyll as he joined them at table.
On the far side of the King’s seat, however, he noticed Rickon and Sansa exchanging looks. Something passed silently between them, though he could not be certain what it meant. When Shireen and Dickon, shadowed by Devan, had left the Great Hall, the young lord of the house similarly took to his feet and announced his intentions to hunt in the Wolfswood anew. With his wolf at his heels, he, too, left the table. As Davos frowned after him and considered calling out to question him, a presence at his elbow drew his attention back. Sansa offered him a smile.
“Will you join me in my solar, Lord Davos? There is so much I would ask you about these past years. Word brought by raven is not nearly enough to assuage my curiosity about how the realm has fared.” With her delicate hand on his arm, she led him away, and though he glanced back over his shoulder toward the door as the boy and wolf disappeared, he assented.
“Lady Sansa, you are too gracious, but I confess that Rickon worries me.”
“You, me, everyone. It has been difficult. I am not my mother. He barely remembers her, and I do not think he remembers Father at all. I was so grateful when you returned him to me, the whole North thanks you and His Grace for it every day, but he’s as much a creature of impulse as his wolf. Maybe that’s as it should be.” She fell silent as they walked together, her hand still tucked gently into the crook of his arm.
“That creature is the only reason he is still alive. It, and the wildling woman, to be sure.” At that, Sansa half-smiled.
“Osha. She is in Dorne, you know. All she wanted, once the wars were over, was to go “as south as south went” still. Lady Manderly and I saw her off on a ship from White Harbor. She sends word by the tradeships, sometimes. She wed a Dornishman, a widower, and runs his shop in Sunspear, and raises his four daughters.” Davos could not help but shake his head admiringly.
“A strong woman. I am glad to hear that she is well,” he said, and meant every word. The wildling woman had been a wonder in every sense, and he never would have gained a young Rickon’s trust without her. They stepped inside the solar, fitted with many glass panes angled to catch the thin sunlight, the room snug and comfortable, and once Sansa had taken a seat, he joined her.
“Does he do this often? The sudden hunting trips?” he asked. Sansa pursed her lips and nodded.
“As often as I will let him, and more. The walls of the keep constrain him. They chafe at him like chains. Arya was bad enough, but Rickon…it’s worse, in some ways. They say that some Starks get more of the wolf blood than others. He has all of it. I do not know what he would do without me here to manage the things he can’t make himself do.”
“Sooner or later, my lady, you will wed and leave the managing of Winterfell to another,” Davos said gently.
“I am not so certain, on that score. Rickon will never force me to wed, thank the gods, and I may never choose to marry again. Twice is quite enough, I think. But Rickon does need to marry, eventually. Any number of lords would offer him their daughter, and he is certainly grown into a handsome young man, but he is wild. A man who whores or gambles or fights, a girl might be used to, or even expect. But one who disappears for days on end with his wolf? I am not sure there are many maids who would choose that sort of husband,” Sansa said, shaking her head.
“Oh, you might be surprised,” Davos said with feigned cheer. “But let us talk of other things. You are right that raven-borne news is never enough. How has the north fared in these past years?”
They spoke for several candlemarks, enjoying one another’s company and sharing news of friends and acquaintances. He laughed ruefully to hear that Wylla Manderly was entertaining her fifth suitor in as many years, with this one as unsuccessful as the last several had been at winning her heart. She mouthed a grateful prayer to the Mother when he shared the news with her, quietly, that his spies had located Tommen Baratheon still living, albeit under a false name, as an alchemist’s apprentice in Lys - and another prayer when he explained that Stannis had no plans to send swords after him, so long as he stayed there. He asked after Northmen, wildling clan leaders, and the men of the Watch, from whom she had messengers regularly. She asked after Davos’s own family, and this noble and that, and even a few servants from the Red Keep, which he found remarkable, after all these years.
As they spoke, Stannis heard muffled voices in the hallway. He ignored them at first, expecting that they were servants at their duties, but as the voices raised, he leapt to his feet just as the door burst open, admitting his son, Devan, trailed by an anxious servant in Stark livery, trying to prevent him from entering.
“Kingsguard or no, it’s not proper to go barging in to her ladyship’s solar,” the older woman cried, pulling at his arm. Devan seemed to be largely ignoring her, an anxious expression on his face.
“Father...my Lord Hand, we must speak.” Stannis felt fear turn in his gut.
“Is it the Princess? Is she harmed?”
“No, but…” Devan stammered.
“The king?” Sansa gasped. Devan shook his head.
“No, but…”
“Ser Devan, are they both guarded and well? Is there any immediate danger?” Davos asked harshly, trying to shock his son into coherence. Devan drew a deep breath and replied evenly, standing somewhat awkwardly with the servingwoman hanging off of his arm.
“Ser Omer and Lord Commander Gerald guard the king. Ser Corliss guards Princess Shireen,” he assured Davos.
“It is not immediate danger, but danger nonetheless and I must speak with you, my lord. Now,” he said, half-begging.
“First, you will apologize to Lady Sansa and…” he trailed off, looking questioningly to the servingwoman, who was still trying, ineffectually, to pull Devan toward the door. She straightened, and bobbed a curtsey to Davos.
“Merry, my lord, if it please you,” she said.
“It does. Ser Devan, please apologize for bursting into this room without anyone being in serious danger,” Stannis said warningly, narrowing his eyes at his son. Devan had the good grace to flush.
“My lady Sansa. Madam Merry. I am sorry for my rudeness. But there is a matter of much importance to the throne that I need to discuss with my father,” he said, looking imploringly at the last to Davos.
“Of course, Ser Devan. We will go. Please make use of my solar as long as you need to speak.” Sansa rose to her feet and began to leave the room with her servingwoman in tow. When Devan looked hesitant, Davos made a decision.
“Lady Sansa, please stay. I have a feeling that you will want to know this news, too, judging by my son’s face. Merry, if you would permit me, though I am not your lord, would you send a girl with wine for us? I think we will need it.” The woman disappeared with another bob of her head, and Davos waited for Sansa to regain her seat.
“Devan, just what is going on? This behavior is most inappropriate.” Devan looked shamed, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Father, I…while we were out riding, a woman tried to kill the princess,” he said, his face set into a pale mask. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, shocked, and Davos felt his jaw set hard.
“Tell me everything,” he demanded.
“The princess went riding with Lord Tarly. I followed behind them, just a few paces, to give them some privacy to speak. We rode a ways out west and south, along the edges of the Wolfswood. All was well for some time. The princess and Lord Tarly were talking, the weather was pleasant. We hardly saw anyone, but at a distance, and suddenly a woman appeared out of the wood. She was old, stooped and gray, but she had a bow in her hand, and it was drawn. She was ahead of us, a good bit, and she aimed toward us. I didn’t know what to do.” He looked pleadingly at his father.
“There was no way I could get to her before she could shoot the princess, nor could Lord Tarly. She was saying something, it wasn’t clear, but it was something about the princess being “unclean”, and how the realm would suffer if she became queen.” Davos looked perplexed, until Sansa explained. No longer outwardly shocked, Sansa had schooled her expression to give nothing away.
“A wildling superstition. They believe that greyscale is a curse, and those who survive it are damned. Jon has been trying to teach them that it’s just foolishness and lies, that survivors of the childhood disease can’t spread it, but some may not believe it,” she said reluctantly. At Devan’s disgusted look, Sansa lifted her chin.
“It’s hard north of the Wall, ser. Disease, of any kind, is generally a death sentence. No one survives grayscale, there. It seems like magic to them, of the worst kind. I won’t defend ignorance, but they do have reasons for being wary,” she said simply.
“Whatever the woman’s reasons, she was ready to loose her arrow, though something held her hand. At that moment, the boy…Lord Stark appeared out of the wood, just as silently as she had. He called her by name, and that wolf of his advanced on her, coming close, growling, though not attacking. While she was distracted, I tried to move around the princess, to shield her, but the wildling saw me, and yelled for me to hold, swearing to shoot.” Devan’s face was nearly gray as he recalled, fear still hanging heavy on his shoulders.
“Lord Stark kept advancing on her. He did not touch his weapon, bow or sword, but he drew her attention. I thought…I thought he meant for us, for Ser Dickon and I, to use the distraction and run with the princess, but he looked back at us, and swore the wildling woman could shoot the eye out of a dove.” He rubbed at his eyes again, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
“He told her, the woman, to put down her bow and listen, not to throw her life away on superstition…and then he turned ‘round, and looked at the princess. He yelled at her. He was angry, and the wolf was growling, it was like tearing cloth. He asked… No, he told the princess to convince the woman not to shoot. He said that the woman would hardly listen to him, even if he was her lord, but that the future queen should be able to convince her.” Anger showed briefly over Devan’s features.
“Tarly called him a fool, and I thought so, too, but Shireen, the princess, she just looked down at the woman, and threw back the hood of her cloak. She wasn’t even afraid. And she said that the woman was a great fool, to attack the daughter of the man who had helped to save her and all the rest of the northern people - and she called her a northerner, not a wildling - and the only ruler of these Seven Kingdoms who was likely not to chase them back across the Wall, when all was said and done. The princess said that there were no greater friends to the North outside it than her and King Stannis, and I could see that the woman had doubts, though she did not lower her bow.” Davos found himself willing his boy to speak faster, clenching his shortened hand into a fist, while Sansa sat still as a statue across the low table between them.
“And then…then the princess said to the woman, ‘Shoot then!’ She cried it out, and I thought I would save her or die trying. But she did not stop speaking, and she sat that red palfrey of hers, draped in that cloak, and I thought for a moment the Lord of Light was speaking through her, foolish as it is. The princess told the woman that if she was so stupid as to throw away everything the past decade had brought that was good for the realm, and was willing to take her chances with whatever lord would come out on top if she died, then she should shoot, but that would make her a vile wretch throwing away her life, and many others. And I could tell the woman was ashamed. She lowered her bow, and the wolf lunged, and snapped it from her hands. His jaws shattered the wood, and the woman ran into the woods.” Daven let out a breath, and briefly looked as if he might cry. He looked so young, Davos marveled. He forgot, sometimes, just how young he was, despite all that he had done.
“I told the princess to turn and ride for the keep immediately. Tarly called me a coward, and was riding into the woods to pursue the woman, when Lord Stark grabbed his rein and kept him from it. They argued and I was certain they would come to blows, but then Lord Stark took to the woods himself, saying he would handle it, and that if Lord Tarly had any issue with it, that he ought to go and...” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.
“And what, boy?” Davos said impatiently.
“It would not be right to say in front of the lady, father,” he said apologetically. Sansa made a little stifled sound that might have been a laugh.
“I must tell the king,” Devan said, looking sick at heart. Davos shook his head.
“No. I will tell His Grace.”
*****
“The princess was very brave,” Alys observed, rubbing her eyes and yawning a little. The candles had burnt down low, and Davos realized he had been talking for ages. He reached out and found a half-full cup of watered wine, which he drained to wet his throat.
“She was,” he agreed. “She was the bravest of all of them. She was the only one who only used her words to simply convince the woman not to shoot her arrow. She wasn’t afraid.”
“I would be afraid of someone with a bow, I think,” Dalla admitted.
“It is smart to sometimes be afraid,” Davos responded gently. “Not everyone can be persuaded from a thing they believe, even if they are wrong. Sometimes, though, it can be done.”
*****
The king was furious at the tale that Davos and Devan related, as was to be expected. He sent them to find the princess and send her to him, so that he might have the story from her own mouth, and father and son bowed together and went to find her. Though Devan had left her under the watch of Ser Corliss of the Kingsguard, it was not so easy to find her. They searched the keep, together - her rooms, the Great Hall, even the small Sept on the keep grounds, and there was no trace of her, or her guardian. Davos began to worry.
“Where could she have gone?” Devan said, pulling at his hair in misery. And Davos remembered, then. Northerners did not go to a Sept in times of crisis - this place only had one because the late Lady Stark had been a devotee of the Faith. Northerners went elsewhere.
“The godswood,” Davos said simply, and they turned as one and made for the gated wood. It was at the gate itself that they found Ser Corliss, frowning deeply.
“Why are you not with the princess?” Devan demanded of the man, nearly furious.
“Lord Stark himself is with her, and he said the wood was a holy place, where I would not be welcome as a follower of the Lord of Light,” he spat. “I guard the gate, it is enough. There are no other ways in or out.” Before Devan could object further, Davos laid his hand on the boy’s arm.
“He is right, Devan. Wait here. I will bring the princess and Lord Stark to His Grace so they can make their explanations to him.” He strode past the gate, immediately surrounded by summer foliage. It was strange to him that a small forest seemed to exist within the castle itself, but that is what the Stark godswood truly was. The fires that had claimed much of the keep itself had not claimed the wood…or the wood had grown back miraculously since then, somehow. He slipped through trees robed in white, dripping leaves of red, listening for the sound of water, and voices, only stopping short when he found the two he was looking for in the center clearing, under the boughs of the heart tree.
Shireen was wrapped in her cloak, redder even than the leaves, and he could see that she was angry, fury on her features. Rickon seemed calm, though, as did the wolf at his side. It lay in the fallen leaves, tongue lolling, and watched the humans as if he was amused in some fashion. Stark’s arms were crossed over his chest, while the princess paced back and forth, her boots rustling the leaves.
“You had no right to speak to me that way,” she snapped. “You ought to be on your knees apologizing.”
“Apologize for what, saving your life? She wouldn’t have listened to me. She needed to hear it from you,” he replied, his manner unchanged. He certainly seemed unlikely to fall to his knees.
“And what does that say of you, my lord, that you cannot keep your smallfolk from treason?” she hissed. He frowned at that.
“The free folk…well, the people who used to be free folk, they take a different sort of ruling. They listen to sense, not orders. I could have ordered her down, yes. She would have even listened. But it would have changed nothing. They’d still think you cursed. Another would try. This way, they heard from your own lips to learn how stupid they were. Yna will tell others what happened, today. They’ll listen to one of their own. You are safer, having done what I told you to do, than if I had had Shaggy rip out her throat.” At his name, the wolf let out a low growl, and the princess looked at both man and wolf as if the sight of them infuriated her.
“You ought to have. What she did was treason, and my father will have her head.” Rickon only shook his head.
“He doesn’t have to. You don’t have to. Just tell him what you said. You’re going to be the bloody queen someday, aren’t you? Don’t you have a say in it?” he asked.
“Of course! Anyway, it might not matter what either of us say, now. I am sure Lord Tarly is hunting her even this moment. He’s slain brigands before, this will be no different.” She rounded on him, crossing her arms across her chest.
“If he finds his way out of the Wolfswood alive, he will be a very lucky man,” Rickon replied. Shireen’s face went pale.
“What did you do?”
“I’ve done nothing. What Yna and the others will do to him if he’s foolish, I can’t say.” He smiled a little, looking amused, but Shireen’s scowl, followed hard by a slap, wiped it from his face. The wolf growled, but the princess did not even flinch, meeting Rickon’s eyes furiously.
“If he dies, it will be on your head. This is no joke.” The boy rubbed the side of his face warily.
“Apparently not. I will retrieve him, if you so fear for him. For your sake, and Sam’s, I suppose,” he said reluctantly.
“But you should be glad, you know. The free folk don’t just listen to anyone. You, they listened to. They respect King Stannis, and they’ll follow you just as well.” With a tug on his wolf’s ear, the boy and the beast walked from the clearing, passing by Davos without a word.
*****
“He deserved to be slapped.”
“You’re right, he absolutely did, sweetling.”
*****
The light was fading by the time that Lord Stark and Lord Tarly returned to Winterfell. A man set to watch from the walls from the Hunter’s Gate called out a warning that a rider approached from the wood, repeated by the man who burst into the Great Hall, where all waited for word. They emerged out into the courtyard, some murmuring curses at word that only a single rider approached, just as the loping horse, trailed by a shadowy wolf, entered the gates.
Rickon Stark rode the horse, but lashed across the saddle’s pommel was draped the bound form of Dickon Tarly. Somewhere, a lady screamed, perhaps fearing him dead, but Davos saw that he was very alive, particularly once Stark unceremoniously dumped him to the cobblestones and dismounted. The younger man’s face was set in a mask of fury. Tarly’s face, however, was harder to decipher, swelling as it was with dark bruises.
“Lord Stark, what is the meaning of this?” the king demanded as Shireen hurried forward with a gasp toward Dickon where he sprawled on the ground.
“Your Grace, this guest of yours was trying to butcher my people,” he snarled, while the wolf paced behind him.
“Treasonous bastard,” Dickon said, spitting a mouthful of blood as he sat up, working at his bonds. “I was trying to catch the bitch that you let escape.”
“But you could not find her, could you, noble ser?” Rickon snapped in reply, disdain in every syllable. “So you were going to take it out on anyone you found. You damn near killed that woman, you damned coward. And you burned her house to the ground with your fool ideas of justice, trying to smoke out your quarry. You’re a child playing with toys, and these are my lands and people, not yours.” He lashed out with a booted foot, knocking Tarly to the ground once again as he attempted to rise.
“Enough, Lord Stark.” The king gestured to a member of the kingsguard to step forward and haul Dickon to his feet, cutting his rough bonds. Stark bowed roughly.
“Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness. But I could not allow him to run free on my lands, harming my people.”
“He was pursuing a traitor who thought to kill my daughter, Stark,” the king said, his voice as cold as ice.
“A woman who thought of it, but did not. Your daughter can tell you herself that the woman never loosed an arrow or made an attempt on her life. She was threatened, it is true. I take the blame for allowing to happen on my lands, but butchering the once free folk in numbers will do nothing to protect her, Your Grace. Not the least of which from this great fool, who would murder children,” he added, pointing a finger at Dickon Tarly.
“Children? What were you thinking, ser?” It was Shireen’s voice then, and her disgust toward the Lord of Horn Hill was palpable. His eyes shone with passionate conviction in the light of the torches that ringed the courtyard, and he pleaded with her.
“I thought only of you, princess, and your safety. I did all that I could to catch the woman, and any who aided her. You must see, Shireen, this is why you must let me make these decisions for you. As a woman, no one would expect you to countenance what must happen in times of war. A Queen’s role is different, more sacred. I could never let you…”
The slap echoed loudly across the courtyard, and all were shocked to silence, particularly Dickon Tarly, and if that broken nose did not hurt before, Davos judged, it certainly did now. Shireen stared down the man who had been speaking until that moment, wiping her hand clean of his blood and sweat on her cloak with a look of disgust.
“I do not think I could ever let you continue that sentence, Lord Tarly. So be silent.” She turned away and looked to Rickon.
“You know by name the woman who threatened me today,” she said. “You will find her, and you will send her to the Wall. Lord Commander Snow still keeps an all-female garrison, the Masked Sisters, at Queensgate. She will join them. You will join us when we leave for the wall, and bring her yourself, in fact.” Rickon nearly hesitated, but he bowed before her.
“As you will, princess.”
“I do.” She turned to her father. “The Wall is for all criminals, even the very worst. Will this be acceptable over her head on a pike?” Stannis did not seem particularly pleased, but then, he never did. He assented with a brief nod.
“As you say, even the worst criminals may be sent to the Wall for their crimes. I am content.”
*****
“He really deserved to be slapped,” piped up a sleepy voice.
“Undoubtedly.”
*****
Even in the depth of summer, the Wall was frigid and unyielding, and snow swirled in the air. Davos could only be grateful that it was warm compared to what he had known during the wars upon bringing Rickon back to win the north to Stannis. This was nothing, to that, but still brisk, and yet bracingly refreshing after the stifling heat of fires, food and bodies gathered together to feast, not to mention the flowing wine. Lord Commander Snow had welcomed King Stannis as the friend he was, and though the occasion was solemn, as honors were heaped on Snow and the entire Watch, it was also a time of revelry, as those who remembered the wars celebrated surviving them.
He shrugged his fur-lined cloak more closely about himself and stepped out into the snowy courtyard, the chill prickling his face. He breathed deep, and then stopped short. Across the way, standing in the falling snow, stood the princess and Rickon Stark. She was draped in her heavy red cloak from head to toe, and he wore furs, nearly as black as the wolf that normally never left his side, though Davos had seen the beast gamboling with its snow-white brother, and suspected they were nowhere near. It reminded him strikingly of how he had found them in the Winterfell godswood, though this time, neither seemed angry, nor amused. The spoke quietly, breath frosting the air, and snow swirling around their heads.
“It has been good to see Jon again. He does not visit often. He can’t, as Lord Commander,” he said wistfully.
“It brings back strange memories to be here,” she said softly. “I was so frightened, then. And now, it feels very distant.”
“It is. It was a long time ago. I remember a little. Less than you, even, probably. I suppose I am lucky, that way. I think about now, more than then. There will be a time when people won’t remember what happened, and think it was all magic and myth. Someone will need to remember enough to remind them,” he said, shaking his head.
“That will be my job. I will be queen, someday. I won’t let them forget.” She lifted her chin, staring into his eyes. They were of a similar height, and if she pulled herself up fully on her heeled boots, she almost seemed taller. He only smiled ruefully.
“I don’t doubt you.”
“Lord Stark, will you come back to King’s Landing with us, if I ask it?” she said suddenly. The boy looked gobsmacked, shaking his head from side to side like a confused animal.
“Why would you think of me in King’s Landing? I hardly think I should fit amongst your court folk…” Shireen smiled at the thought.
“I think that is precisely why I would like you to come back with us. Well, at least in part. I might need you again, you know,” she said quietly.
“You didn’t need me to save your life. You told her what she needed to hear, and you don’t need me to deal with Dickon. You slapped the thoughts out of his head, and Maester Samwell has been cramming the good ones right back into him, I think.” They both laughed a little at that, and finally Shireen sighed.
“You’re right. I do not need you, in truth. But I think I might want you there, all the same. Lord Davos is the man my father relies upon to tell him the truth, always. You may be the only person, besides him, who has done the same for me in the time I have known you,” she explained.
“You want me to be your Hand?” he asked, his voice incredulous. She shook her head briskly.
“No, no. Well. Not exactly. I just… Oh, come to King’s Landing, will you? Father is king. Davos is his Hand. We don’t have to be anything, yet, but I want you to come in any case. We can see what happens,” she said finally.
“Besides, I want to see Shaggy at court. It would be wonderful to see all those ridiculous courtiers running for their lives a time or two,” she added, grinning. He matched her expression, a crooked smile on his face.
“That might be worth it.”
Davos found himself entirely pleased, and it wasn’t all to be blamed on the wine.
*****
In the morning, Septa Neryssa was nearly frantic. She had fallen asleep in her chair outside the children’s room, only to rise before dawn and find that three of the little hellions had somehow slipped past her in the night. Prowling around the keep to the rhythmic sound of rainfall, she crept up to the lord’s reading chamber, calling out softly for the children, trying to find their hiding place, only to see the door slightly ajar. Sending up a prayer to all seven gods - and any others who might be listening, pragmatic as she was - she gently, slowly pushed open the door.
Inside, the lord was fast asleep, head thrown back in his chair, with little Dalla and Alys curled up on his lap, one head on each of his shoulders, and roguish Rolland sleeping on the desk, his head in his hands. She laughed softly to herself, slipped out, and closed the door.
Title: Red Riding Hood and the Wolf
Author: coaldustcanary
Rating: All Ages
Characters: Davos Seaworth, Stanis Baratheon, Shireen Baratheon, Dickon Tarly, Sansa Stark, Rickon Stark, Edric Dayne; Pairings - Shireen/Dickon Tarly, Shireen/Rickon, (implied) Stannis/Davos
Word Count: 18,192
Summary: The Lord of Rainwood tells the tale of a princess and her noble knight. And a wolf.
Warning: Off-screen violence against children
Author's Note: Many thanks to our gracious mod who was patient with my extremely late story. I was taken-in by a request to write a Shireen-focused fic, and also inspired a little by my recipient's delightful fill on the fandom kinkmeme that drew on the story of Bluebeard. This draws on a slightly different legend...
Part 1/2
High summer made for plentiful daylight, and even the massive, unwieldy party traveled far, for many candlemarks each day. It was not long before the cavalcade took on a routine not entirely dissimilar from that within the Red Keep, in terms of keeping every man fed and sheltered. Few things had changed about the king since the wars, and it had taken several days before his servants had entirely convinced him not to take part in the raising of his tent each evening, and so Davos found himself attempting to engage Stannis in conversation as they sat over a light meal at a table, chairs and beneath an awning hastily erected as they paused to make camp on the fifth night, if only to give the men a moment’s peace in their duties. Some distance away, local smallfolk from the local village were gawking at the activity going on as camp was built for the night, while others were doing a brisk business in trade - foodstuffs and some small crafts were haggled over, and certainly the local inn’s few whores would be plying their trade tonight among the tents lining the Kingsroad.
Davos still marveled a little at the controlled chaos of the camp arising around them, but the king’s countenance was stormy, and he ate almost perfunctorily from the plate, and barely touched his winecup to his lips. And when Edric Dayne and his sworn men ride by on their delicate sandsteeds, the beasts frolicking like colts despite the long journey and the men laughing and jesting, Davos would nearly swear he felt a chill on the summer air as the king’s expression turned to stone.
“They are lucky the Hand stays my own, else I would have sent them packing back south, with whips hard on their heels all the way to the Prince’s Pass,” the king muttered. Hearing news of Edric Dayne’s warning to Davos on the morning of the journey’s beginning had tested Stannis’s limited patience.
“Your Grace, I am certain you are best served by putting the matter from your mind. Would you want such a man as Shireen’s husband? I think not. He ought to have been far more gracious, but we can be glad he has made his intentions known.” In truth, there was a part of Davos that appreciated the Lord of Starfall’s candor, and respected it. But Stannis certainly saw it as a slight.
“I mislike this plan more and more. It feels tawdry, like some sort of game,” Stannis complained.
“Shireen hardly considers it to be play, Your Grace. Today, as we rode, as Estermont promised her a gift of gold jewelry, she turned the conversation into a near-interrogation of the man on taxation laws of the kingdoms. And at dinner yesterday evening, upon hearing Rowan describe the beauties of Goldengrove, she questioned what he knew of his lands’ incomes and what crops were grown by the smallfolk. And she does it all while smiling,” Davos said. Stannis did not smile, but something a little softer touched the angles of his face. The princess was not neglecting putting each of the men through their paces, though after Davos had told her that Ned Dayne would not be swayed, her interactions with him had become somewhat more cursory and distantly polite.
As if conjured by their conversation, Shireen and Dickon Tarly appeared, riding along the small creek not a stone’s throw from the road. The princess’s chestnut palfrey ambed amiably alongside Tarly’s own blood bay, the two horses matching each other stride for stride. They were followed by a white shadow - Devan, in his Kingsguard cloak, his pale gray mount reined back a short distance, giving the princess and her escort a small amount of privacy. Tarly cut a handsome figure in a green and brown doublet of a simple cut, the plainness of it a contrast to his handsome features, bright blue eyes and curling dark hair. Over his shoulder, the massive two-handed Valyrian blade of his family rested easily across his back. The princess wore a yellow dress cut for riding, and her long red cloak was draped over her gelding’s hindquarters, the hood trailing down her back. Ser Dickon was relating a story, gesturing with his free hand, the other loose on his horse’s rein, as he sketched figures in the air and then made some motions that Davos took to be a description of a swordfight, while Shireen smiled, and even laughed at some particular word or three.
“…and when the third lance took Ser Duncan Rhysling on our final pass, his green squire, Tywin Graceford, cried out, “Duck!”, all afraid. But it was just a little too late, and Duncan found himself on the ground, and with a new nickname. It would not be very noble of me, but I confess I laughed when some took up the cause of quacking in his general vicinity.” Dickon’s voice had become low and half conspiratorial as he related the end of his tale, but Davos heard in any case, as the pair of them rode up quite close to where he sat with the king. He pulled up his horse and bowed low from the saddle to King Stannis.
“Your Grace, please forgive me for jealously guarding my time with your gracious daughter. She humors my terrible stories, and that I cannot resist. How did you find the road, today?” he inquired politely.
“Stony,” Stannis replied, direct as ever. “Much the same as yesterday. But I am pleased with our progress. If you would leave us now, Lord Davos and I would speak with Shireen.” It was not a question, not from Stannis. Not from a king. Tarly bowed once again with alacricity.
“Your Grace. Lord Hand. Princess.” The final acknowledgment was made with just a touch of softness, a smile extending into his eyes as he gazed at Shireen for a long moment, and then turned his horse away to leave them in relative privacy. Shireen dismounted from her horse and turned him over to a groom with a pat, and strode toward the awning where her father and Davos waited, slipping her riding gloves from her hands. Devan took up a position with the two other members of the Kingsguard in the immediate vicinity, and Shireen fell lightly into the chair that a servant brough forward for her, sitting between the two men at the table and plucking a sliced piece of fruit from the platter.
“Father. My Lord Davos. What are you plotting?” The crisp bit of apple disappeared into her mouth, and she looked inquisitively at both men as she reached for a cup of wine.
“Not plotting. Pondering,” Davos said gently. “Wondering if all of Lord Tarly’s stories are as terrible as he claims.” Stannis remained silent, watching his daughter through half-lidded eyes.
“Rather, they are. But, presuming they are true, he is a knight of some renown in the Reach, and has unhorsed most knights there, and a good chunk of Dorne, besides.”
“Tourneys are play,” Stannis warned. “And that only at the best of times. At worst, they are terrible distractions for good warriors, tangling them with lesser men in constant mock-battles that mean nothing but an excuse for transient glory and celebratory drink.” While he agreed with the king in many respects, Davos couldn’t help but wonder how much of that resentment was based on the love that his brothers had once held for tourney games. He had heard tales of Robert wading into melees with gleeful shouts, and Renly had unhorsed many opponents in his day. The king was ever a hard man, but sometimes he was at his hardest when reminded of his brothers.
“Very true,” Shireen admitted. “But he would not tell me the story of how he slew half of the Oakwood outlaws for fear of damaging my delicate sensibilities.” A touch of dry amusement tinged her voice.
“That story I had to have Devan dig out of one of his men, with judicious application of drink. In truth, Ser Dickon is not just a tourney knight. He is as capable with that greatsword in real battle as any man. His father taught him well.”
“Do you respect him?” Stannis asked. “Not love, I do not care for your feelings, but do you believe that can you respect him, trust him, rely on him? Would he be as loyal to you as Davos has been to me, because you can earn it of him, not buy it?” His questions were cutting, even demanding, and it was clear he expected an answer.
“I am certain of it. He is everything a knight should be, you see it, don’t you? His men respect him fully, he has managed his family’s lands well for years, now, and he would be a strong leader for the kingdom,” Shireen said confidently. Stannis’s scowl only deepened.
“You will lead these damned kingdoms when I am gone, not your consort.”
“He will be king. If a king’s wife is a queen, a queen’s husband is a king,” she said briskly. “Besides, do you expect me to lead the charge if it comes to war again?” Davos found himself unsettled by her answers, and the careless, humor-tinged dismissal of her future responsibilities.
“Of course not. But a ruler leads, and makes the final decision in war after hearing the counsel of those he trusts. You will still have that responsibility,” Davos said, before the king could say it less graciously.
“I don’t see why Dickon couldn’t do it. Men will listen to other men in matters of war better than they would ever obey me.” There was something petulant about her expression, as if she had expected this conversation would go differently. It was not a familiar thing for Davos to see on her face. The king’s expression made stone seem soft in comparison.
“Because he is not my child. You are, and you will lead after me. This is what I have been preparing you for your entire life, Shireen. You will not hand your birthright off to a near-stranger because he has a pretty face and you think it would make your own life easier. Nothing about ruling is easy. That is your lot in life, and you cannot shirk it.” Stannis fixed his daughter with a hard gaze, his body rigid in his chair, as if he was holding himself back from standing and looming over her to deliver his opinion. He had never needed to, in the past. Shireen had long been a sensible child - never biddable, no, but always sensitive to reason and in agreement with her father’s cool temperament and perhaps cynical view of the world. In this, however, she had formed her own opinion.
“And why must a thing be made harder in order to be right?” she snapped, a flush rising in her cheek at being rebuked, standing abruptly, her skirts swinging and her chin high. “I am only thinking of what will be best for the kingdom.” The king’s reply was dismissive.
“No. You are thinking of what will be best for yourself.”
As the princess turned on her heel and strode away, Daven hurried to follow her, and Davos stifled the urge to call after her. This would not be settled in a yelling match, and that was what was like to erupt if he forced her to remain. Stannis remained still a moment longer, and if surprise was an expression he knew how to show, it might have been seen on his face.
“I will be in my tent. I’ll have my dinner there, I’ve had enough of this picnicking.” Davos stood and began to follow, pitching his voice low.
“Your Grace…”
“Alone, Lord Davos. That will be all.”
As the king disappeared inside his pavilion, Davos poured himself a fresh cup of wine and settled back into his seat to think.
*****
“The princess isn’t…being a very good princess,” Dalla said dubiously. Both she and Alys seemed unsettled by the turn the story had taken.
“Oh?” he said. Alys shook her head.
“Well, a princess is good, and kind, and makes the right decisions for her people. A knight protects the princess, and loves her, and helps her, but he isn’t a princess. A knight would make a very bad princess,” Alys said gravely. Rolly rolled his eyes, but held his peace.
“As it happens, I think you’re quite right. A knight would make a terrible princess.”
*****
The journey to Winterfell was long and arduous. Each day dawned bright, and they made good progress in mild summer weather, but the cold impasse between Stannis and Shireen was frightening to behold. With the king unwilling to rest at a friendly keep for a few days at any point in the journey, it became all too simple for Stannis and Shireen to avoid one another almost entirely. More often, the princess chose to ride in the wheelhouse, attended by one or more invited young men or women on the journey, their number always including Dickon Tarly, holding a small sort of court there. The king always rode, frequently lapsed into cold silences, with Davos at his right hand. Most of the rest of the party seemed not to notice the changes that had taken place. Many, Davos noted sourly, seemed pleased that the princess rode safely ensconced in the wheelhouse instead of tearing about as the fearless horsewoman, her cloak streaming out behind her like a banner, as she had for the first week of the journey. Still, finally the day came when an outrider came galloping back to the main party on a sweat-soaked horse.
“Winterfell will soon be in sight, Your Grace.” Stannis only nodded silently to the man, who bowed low and retreated. After a few moments, he turned to Davos.
“Send a fresh rider ahead so that the household will be prepared for our arrival.” Davos saw to it, and within minutes, a young man on a fast, fresh horse galloped ahead of the slow-moving mass of travelers.
“It will be good to stay within a keep’s walls again, Your Grace,” Davos observed, hoping that this change would draw Stannis out of his silent solitude of the past weeks.
“It might be,” was the king’s only reply, yet it was enough to let more words escape.
“You have spoken with her about this foolishness.” It was never a question. He should learn not to expect it.
“I have. I don’t know whether the boy has convinced her that she would be better off with him doing things for her, or whether she’s come to the conclusion on her own, but she’s dug in her heels on this score. She is convinced that the only way she will be respected is to have a husband take on many of the duties of the realm. She would rather placate them in advance than find herself in a position of weakness, I fear.”
“It’s the damn boy,” Stannis growled. “She never thought this way before he suggested it to her. I am certain he did it with every courtesy, offering himself humbly as her servant, but it makes no matter. She will give him rein to rule if she gives him control of those things better fit for men, and encourage the petty lordlings to curry favor with one or the other of them. A realm can have but one ruler.”
Silence descended over the men once again, as Davos could find nothing to disagree with in the king’s words. As they rode, the sun rose high overhead, lending warmth to the cool northern air, and it was not long before Winterfell came into sight in the distance. The imposing keep had been largely rebuilt much as it once stood, but even a decade and the work of hundreds of men was not enough time to replace all that had burned. The Great Hall and main keep were repaired, though, and some towers stood. They would rest within snug walls, tonight.
As they rode on, soon activity could be made out - men the size of ants moved along the walls, and smallfolk pointed and flocked to one another as the massive train of people approached. The King’s Gate was winched open to allow them to pass, and they rode through the small town that huddled up against the side of the keep to approach it. The trailing part of the travelers - a portion of the men at arms and supply wagons - pulled to the far side of the Kingsroad to set up their own camp. Their numbers would strain even Winterfell’s space, and so Davos had directed them thus. It was still a hundred and more strong who entered the outer walls, with the king at their head. Within the keep wall, a party awaited them in the expansive courtyard, with Sansa Stark standing ready to greet them.
She was hardly any older than Shireen in years, but much older in every other way, it seemed. Twice widowed - once from the Imp, and again from Ser Harold Hardying - she remained childless, and though she had spent much of the wars within the safety of the Vale, she had returned to Winterfell not long after the death of her second husband, and she had not yet chosen to remarry. Being Lady of Winterfell, however, seemed to suit her well. As the royal party dismounted, she curtseyed low, and all of the various high-ranking servants behind her followed suit. Davos scanned the crowd and saw no evidence of Winterfell’s lord.
“Your Grace, you are most welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa said, her expression warm.
“Lady Sansa, your hospitality is much appreciated on our long journey,” the king replied. He did not smile, or seem warm, but there was a sincerity to his interaction with the young woman - as well as a directness.
“Where is Lord Rickon?” Sansa cast her eyes downward, her expression that of embarrassment, though Davos had a suspicion it was hiding feelings of irritation.
“Rickon went hunting this morning, and has not yet returned. I have sent men to find him in the Wolfswood, but no one knows the woods as well as he does, I am afraid. They may be some time in finding him.” As Sansa and the king conversed, the members of the party who had been riding in the wheelhouse had emerged and were walking up behind them. Shireen laughed softly at some jest of Dickon’s, and held his arm as they walked across the courtyard.
“Princess Shireen, you are most welcome, too,” Sansa said, curtseying once more as the princess approached. Her clever blue eyes evaluated her companion quickly, but Shireen spoke before Sansa could.
“This is Lord Tarly, who is our guest on this long journey.”
“A pleasure, my lord,” Sansa said, a bit of surprise showing on her features. “You are not…you must be Maester Samwell’s brother.” Dickon smiled broadly, and bowed.
“You are correct, my lady. I have not seen him in many years, and that is a part of why I have come on this journey. A small part,” he added, turning his grin on Shireen, who blushed somewhat. Nothing changed on Sansa’s expression, but Davos had no doubt she saw significantly more to the exchange than she let on. Finally, the lady of the house turned to him, and when she attempted to curtsey, he caught her hand and hugged her gently.
“My Lord Hand,” she began, and then returned the embrace. “It is very, very good to see you, as always,” she murmured quietly.
“Still as wild as ever?” he asked her softly.
“As wild as ever,” was her only reply.
As if on cue, a rider entered from the Hunter’s Gate at a rapid pace, and hard on the horse’s heels was a massive black direwolf. The Lord of Winterfell had returned. A groom rushed forward to take the horse and the deer carcass slung over the saddle’s cantle as the rider jumped to the ground and laid a hand on the shoulder of the massive lupine beast as if to calm it. Davos was taken aback - the boy was entirely a man grown, even at only fifteen.
Rickon’s red-brown hair was thick and long, tied back from his face with a simple knot, and he had a short, rough beard of the same color. He had not grown into a particularly tall man, but he was strong, and the sword at his hip rested there easily. If the deer was any indication, he knew how to use the bow slung across his back as well. He might look a Tully - and he resembled his uncle Edmure to a startling degree in some ways, Davos realized in that moment - but this boy was every inch a Stark, otherwise. As he always had been. He strode across the courtyard much the same as the prowling, black wolf at his heels.
“Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell.” At Sansa’s soft cough, he bowed, somewhat too fast, as if it was an action he felt uncomfortable making.
“What a beast!” came the muttered comment, barely audible, but Davos heard it. It was Tarly speaking, he knew, and when he glanced sideways, the young lord looked caught between horror and fascination at the sight of the massive black wolf. Shireen, for her part, looked taken aback as well.
“Lord Stark, I am glad your hunt was successful.” Stannis allowed a little dryness to enter his tone, and Rickon had the good grace to look somewhat chagrinned, though Davos didn’t see a hint of regret in his eyes.
“I would offer you the venison tonight, Your Grace, but my sister has organized a much more southron feast in your honor.”
“I am sure whatever the Lady of Winterfell has organized will delight us. We have been too long on the road,” Davos said. He stepped forward and grasped the boy’s arm.
“It’s good to see you well, Rickon. You’ve grown a great deal.” The return clasp was strong and firm, and for the first time, the boy actually smiled.
“Davos, I mean, my Lord Hand, I’m glad to see you. It has been a very long time, hasn’t it?” His expression was at once happy and a little sad. At his side, the wolfs ears tipped backward, and its expression became somewhat uneasy.
“Too long. But, there will be time for that. First, I ought present you to the Princess Shireen.” Davos turned, gripping his shoulder companionably, and then gave a little surreptitious push to remind him to bow.
“Princess, may I present Lord Rickon Stark.” To his credit, he bowed at the pressure, this time just a little more smoothly. Shireen studied him frankly with curious eyes, and then smiled a little.
“My lord, I have heard so much about you from Lord Davos. I am pleased to be able to meet you, finally.” Her gaze slid sideways to the wolf.
“And your…friend.” Rickon grinned a little, a friendly expression on most, though there was a hint of a threat to it on his face, and buried his hand in the massive beast’s black fur.
“This is Shaggy. We’ve grown together, and we have an understanding,” he offered. The wolf stared fixedly, first at the princess, and then at her companion. Tarly did not seem particularly amused.
“Is it safe?” he inquired, looking dubious.
“Safe? No.” The feral smile on the young lord’s face deepened a fraction, and he turned away to address the king.
“Your Grace, if you would come with me, I would welcome you properly, with bread and salt, and wine to wash the thirst from you.” Taking his sister’s hand, he gestured for the king to precede him into the Great Hall, trailed by the wolf.
*****
“Brilliant.”
“Yes, it rather was, Rolly.”
*****
Somewhat to Davos’s surprise, Shireen took to Winterfell comfortably, and seemed immediately at ease. When he made mention of it, she had laughed at him, an easy smile on her face.
“Don’t forget, my lord, I spent the wars on the Wall itself. Nothing about the North unsettles me, least of all its greatest keep. It is different than King’s Landing, but hardly more remote than Dragonstone. It is good to have a little taste of all parts of the realm.”
Ser Dickon, however, seemed ill at ease, and everything about Winterfell and its peoples seemed only to make it worse. The worship of the Old Gods by both the Starks and the smallfolk, the foreboding presence of the Wolfswood just outside the outer bailey of the keep, and most of all the direwolf that followed Lord Stark’s every movement. Shireen tried to coax him into shedding his anxiety, but he moved like a man expecting an attack at any moment, whether he was eating in the Great Hall or walking the walls. Even at breakfast, with most of the highborn guests eating together, he looked on edge. Finally, seemingly at her wits’ end, on the third morning of their stay, the princess invited Tarly to go riding with her later in the day.
“Lady Sansa told me that she’s expecting several lords to arrive today, perhaps we’ll meet some of them if we ride out a little,” she offered with forced gaiety. With a wan smile, Dickon agreed, and Davos leaned toward them.
“Do not leave without at least one, and preferably two members of the Kingsguard, princess,” he reminded her, briefly making eye contact with Devan, who sat over his breakfast a few places down the long table. He nodded soberly, and Shireen sighed.
“Of course, Lord Davos. Ser Devan has been remarkably attentive during this journey.” Davos chose to ignore the dry edge to her voice in favor of cracking the shell of his egg and offering a greeting to Ser Randyll as he joined them at table.
On the far side of the King’s seat, however, he noticed Rickon and Sansa exchanging looks. Something passed silently between them, though he could not be certain what it meant. When Shireen and Dickon, shadowed by Devan, had left the Great Hall, the young lord of the house similarly took to his feet and announced his intentions to hunt in the Wolfswood anew. With his wolf at his heels, he, too, left the table. As Davos frowned after him and considered calling out to question him, a presence at his elbow drew his attention back. Sansa offered him a smile.
“Will you join me in my solar, Lord Davos? There is so much I would ask you about these past years. Word brought by raven is not nearly enough to assuage my curiosity about how the realm has fared.” With her delicate hand on his arm, she led him away, and though he glanced back over his shoulder toward the door as the boy and wolf disappeared, he assented.
“Lady Sansa, you are too gracious, but I confess that Rickon worries me.”
“You, me, everyone. It has been difficult. I am not my mother. He barely remembers her, and I do not think he remembers Father at all. I was so grateful when you returned him to me, the whole North thanks you and His Grace for it every day, but he’s as much a creature of impulse as his wolf. Maybe that’s as it should be.” She fell silent as they walked together, her hand still tucked gently into the crook of his arm.
“That creature is the only reason he is still alive. It, and the wildling woman, to be sure.” At that, Sansa half-smiled.
“Osha. She is in Dorne, you know. All she wanted, once the wars were over, was to go “as south as south went” still. Lady Manderly and I saw her off on a ship from White Harbor. She sends word by the tradeships, sometimes. She wed a Dornishman, a widower, and runs his shop in Sunspear, and raises his four daughters.” Davos could not help but shake his head admiringly.
“A strong woman. I am glad to hear that she is well,” he said, and meant every word. The wildling woman had been a wonder in every sense, and he never would have gained a young Rickon’s trust without her. They stepped inside the solar, fitted with many glass panes angled to catch the thin sunlight, the room snug and comfortable, and once Sansa had taken a seat, he joined her.
“Does he do this often? The sudden hunting trips?” he asked. Sansa pursed her lips and nodded.
“As often as I will let him, and more. The walls of the keep constrain him. They chafe at him like chains. Arya was bad enough, but Rickon…it’s worse, in some ways. They say that some Starks get more of the wolf blood than others. He has all of it. I do not know what he would do without me here to manage the things he can’t make himself do.”
“Sooner or later, my lady, you will wed and leave the managing of Winterfell to another,” Davos said gently.
“I am not so certain, on that score. Rickon will never force me to wed, thank the gods, and I may never choose to marry again. Twice is quite enough, I think. But Rickon does need to marry, eventually. Any number of lords would offer him their daughter, and he is certainly grown into a handsome young man, but he is wild. A man who whores or gambles or fights, a girl might be used to, or even expect. But one who disappears for days on end with his wolf? I am not sure there are many maids who would choose that sort of husband,” Sansa said, shaking her head.
“Oh, you might be surprised,” Davos said with feigned cheer. “But let us talk of other things. You are right that raven-borne news is never enough. How has the north fared in these past years?”
They spoke for several candlemarks, enjoying one another’s company and sharing news of friends and acquaintances. He laughed ruefully to hear that Wylla Manderly was entertaining her fifth suitor in as many years, with this one as unsuccessful as the last several had been at winning her heart. She mouthed a grateful prayer to the Mother when he shared the news with her, quietly, that his spies had located Tommen Baratheon still living, albeit under a false name, as an alchemist’s apprentice in Lys - and another prayer when he explained that Stannis had no plans to send swords after him, so long as he stayed there. He asked after Northmen, wildling clan leaders, and the men of the Watch, from whom she had messengers regularly. She asked after Davos’s own family, and this noble and that, and even a few servants from the Red Keep, which he found remarkable, after all these years.
As they spoke, Stannis heard muffled voices in the hallway. He ignored them at first, expecting that they were servants at their duties, but as the voices raised, he leapt to his feet just as the door burst open, admitting his son, Devan, trailed by an anxious servant in Stark livery, trying to prevent him from entering.
“Kingsguard or no, it’s not proper to go barging in to her ladyship’s solar,” the older woman cried, pulling at his arm. Devan seemed to be largely ignoring her, an anxious expression on his face.
“Father...my Lord Hand, we must speak.” Stannis felt fear turn in his gut.
“Is it the Princess? Is she harmed?”
“No, but…” Devan stammered.
“The king?” Sansa gasped. Devan shook his head.
“No, but…”
“Ser Devan, are they both guarded and well? Is there any immediate danger?” Davos asked harshly, trying to shock his son into coherence. Devan drew a deep breath and replied evenly, standing somewhat awkwardly with the servingwoman hanging off of his arm.
“Ser Omer and Lord Commander Gerald guard the king. Ser Corliss guards Princess Shireen,” he assured Davos.
“It is not immediate danger, but danger nonetheless and I must speak with you, my lord. Now,” he said, half-begging.
“First, you will apologize to Lady Sansa and…” he trailed off, looking questioningly to the servingwoman, who was still trying, ineffectually, to pull Devan toward the door. She straightened, and bobbed a curtsey to Davos.
“Merry, my lord, if it please you,” she said.
“It does. Ser Devan, please apologize for bursting into this room without anyone being in serious danger,” Stannis said warningly, narrowing his eyes at his son. Devan had the good grace to flush.
“My lady Sansa. Madam Merry. I am sorry for my rudeness. But there is a matter of much importance to the throne that I need to discuss with my father,” he said, looking imploringly at the last to Davos.
“Of course, Ser Devan. We will go. Please make use of my solar as long as you need to speak.” Sansa rose to her feet and began to leave the room with her servingwoman in tow. When Devan looked hesitant, Davos made a decision.
“Lady Sansa, please stay. I have a feeling that you will want to know this news, too, judging by my son’s face. Merry, if you would permit me, though I am not your lord, would you send a girl with wine for us? I think we will need it.” The woman disappeared with another bob of her head, and Davos waited for Sansa to regain her seat.
“Devan, just what is going on? This behavior is most inappropriate.” Devan looked shamed, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Father, I…while we were out riding, a woman tried to kill the princess,” he said, his face set into a pale mask. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, shocked, and Davos felt his jaw set hard.
“Tell me everything,” he demanded.
“The princess went riding with Lord Tarly. I followed behind them, just a few paces, to give them some privacy to speak. We rode a ways out west and south, along the edges of the Wolfswood. All was well for some time. The princess and Lord Tarly were talking, the weather was pleasant. We hardly saw anyone, but at a distance, and suddenly a woman appeared out of the wood. She was old, stooped and gray, but she had a bow in her hand, and it was drawn. She was ahead of us, a good bit, and she aimed toward us. I didn’t know what to do.” He looked pleadingly at his father.
“There was no way I could get to her before she could shoot the princess, nor could Lord Tarly. She was saying something, it wasn’t clear, but it was something about the princess being “unclean”, and how the realm would suffer if she became queen.” Davos looked perplexed, until Sansa explained. No longer outwardly shocked, Sansa had schooled her expression to give nothing away.
“A wildling superstition. They believe that greyscale is a curse, and those who survive it are damned. Jon has been trying to teach them that it’s just foolishness and lies, that survivors of the childhood disease can’t spread it, but some may not believe it,” she said reluctantly. At Devan’s disgusted look, Sansa lifted her chin.
“It’s hard north of the Wall, ser. Disease, of any kind, is generally a death sentence. No one survives grayscale, there. It seems like magic to them, of the worst kind. I won’t defend ignorance, but they do have reasons for being wary,” she said simply.
“Whatever the woman’s reasons, she was ready to loose her arrow, though something held her hand. At that moment, the boy…Lord Stark appeared out of the wood, just as silently as she had. He called her by name, and that wolf of his advanced on her, coming close, growling, though not attacking. While she was distracted, I tried to move around the princess, to shield her, but the wildling saw me, and yelled for me to hold, swearing to shoot.” Devan’s face was nearly gray as he recalled, fear still hanging heavy on his shoulders.
“Lord Stark kept advancing on her. He did not touch his weapon, bow or sword, but he drew her attention. I thought…I thought he meant for us, for Ser Dickon and I, to use the distraction and run with the princess, but he looked back at us, and swore the wildling woman could shoot the eye out of a dove.” He rubbed at his eyes again, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
“He told her, the woman, to put down her bow and listen, not to throw her life away on superstition…and then he turned ‘round, and looked at the princess. He yelled at her. He was angry, and the wolf was growling, it was like tearing cloth. He asked… No, he told the princess to convince the woman not to shoot. He said that the woman would hardly listen to him, even if he was her lord, but that the future queen should be able to convince her.” Anger showed briefly over Devan’s features.
“Tarly called him a fool, and I thought so, too, but Shireen, the princess, she just looked down at the woman, and threw back the hood of her cloak. She wasn’t even afraid. And she said that the woman was a great fool, to attack the daughter of the man who had helped to save her and all the rest of the northern people - and she called her a northerner, not a wildling - and the only ruler of these Seven Kingdoms who was likely not to chase them back across the Wall, when all was said and done. The princess said that there were no greater friends to the North outside it than her and King Stannis, and I could see that the woman had doubts, though she did not lower her bow.” Davos found himself willing his boy to speak faster, clenching his shortened hand into a fist, while Sansa sat still as a statue across the low table between them.
“And then…then the princess said to the woman, ‘Shoot then!’ She cried it out, and I thought I would save her or die trying. But she did not stop speaking, and she sat that red palfrey of hers, draped in that cloak, and I thought for a moment the Lord of Light was speaking through her, foolish as it is. The princess told the woman that if she was so stupid as to throw away everything the past decade had brought that was good for the realm, and was willing to take her chances with whatever lord would come out on top if she died, then she should shoot, but that would make her a vile wretch throwing away her life, and many others. And I could tell the woman was ashamed. She lowered her bow, and the wolf lunged, and snapped it from her hands. His jaws shattered the wood, and the woman ran into the woods.” Daven let out a breath, and briefly looked as if he might cry. He looked so young, Davos marveled. He forgot, sometimes, just how young he was, despite all that he had done.
“I told the princess to turn and ride for the keep immediately. Tarly called me a coward, and was riding into the woods to pursue the woman, when Lord Stark grabbed his rein and kept him from it. They argued and I was certain they would come to blows, but then Lord Stark took to the woods himself, saying he would handle it, and that if Lord Tarly had any issue with it, that he ought to go and...” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.
“And what, boy?” Davos said impatiently.
“It would not be right to say in front of the lady, father,” he said apologetically. Sansa made a little stifled sound that might have been a laugh.
“I must tell the king,” Devan said, looking sick at heart. Davos shook his head.
“No. I will tell His Grace.”
*****
“The princess was very brave,” Alys observed, rubbing her eyes and yawning a little. The candles had burnt down low, and Davos realized he had been talking for ages. He reached out and found a half-full cup of watered wine, which he drained to wet his throat.
“She was,” he agreed. “She was the bravest of all of them. She was the only one who only used her words to simply convince the woman not to shoot her arrow. She wasn’t afraid.”
“I would be afraid of someone with a bow, I think,” Dalla admitted.
“It is smart to sometimes be afraid,” Davos responded gently. “Not everyone can be persuaded from a thing they believe, even if they are wrong. Sometimes, though, it can be done.”
*****
The king was furious at the tale that Davos and Devan related, as was to be expected. He sent them to find the princess and send her to him, so that he might have the story from her own mouth, and father and son bowed together and went to find her. Though Devan had left her under the watch of Ser Corliss of the Kingsguard, it was not so easy to find her. They searched the keep, together - her rooms, the Great Hall, even the small Sept on the keep grounds, and there was no trace of her, or her guardian. Davos began to worry.
“Where could she have gone?” Devan said, pulling at his hair in misery. And Davos remembered, then. Northerners did not go to a Sept in times of crisis - this place only had one because the late Lady Stark had been a devotee of the Faith. Northerners went elsewhere.
“The godswood,” Davos said simply, and they turned as one and made for the gated wood. It was at the gate itself that they found Ser Corliss, frowning deeply.
“Why are you not with the princess?” Devan demanded of the man, nearly furious.
“Lord Stark himself is with her, and he said the wood was a holy place, where I would not be welcome as a follower of the Lord of Light,” he spat. “I guard the gate, it is enough. There are no other ways in or out.” Before Devan could object further, Davos laid his hand on the boy’s arm.
“He is right, Devan. Wait here. I will bring the princess and Lord Stark to His Grace so they can make their explanations to him.” He strode past the gate, immediately surrounded by summer foliage. It was strange to him that a small forest seemed to exist within the castle itself, but that is what the Stark godswood truly was. The fires that had claimed much of the keep itself had not claimed the wood…or the wood had grown back miraculously since then, somehow. He slipped through trees robed in white, dripping leaves of red, listening for the sound of water, and voices, only stopping short when he found the two he was looking for in the center clearing, under the boughs of the heart tree.
Shireen was wrapped in her cloak, redder even than the leaves, and he could see that she was angry, fury on her features. Rickon seemed calm, though, as did the wolf at his side. It lay in the fallen leaves, tongue lolling, and watched the humans as if he was amused in some fashion. Stark’s arms were crossed over his chest, while the princess paced back and forth, her boots rustling the leaves.
“You had no right to speak to me that way,” she snapped. “You ought to be on your knees apologizing.”
“Apologize for what, saving your life? She wouldn’t have listened to me. She needed to hear it from you,” he replied, his manner unchanged. He certainly seemed unlikely to fall to his knees.
“And what does that say of you, my lord, that you cannot keep your smallfolk from treason?” she hissed. He frowned at that.
“The free folk…well, the people who used to be free folk, they take a different sort of ruling. They listen to sense, not orders. I could have ordered her down, yes. She would have even listened. But it would have changed nothing. They’d still think you cursed. Another would try. This way, they heard from your own lips to learn how stupid they were. Yna will tell others what happened, today. They’ll listen to one of their own. You are safer, having done what I told you to do, than if I had had Shaggy rip out her throat.” At his name, the wolf let out a low growl, and the princess looked at both man and wolf as if the sight of them infuriated her.
“You ought to have. What she did was treason, and my father will have her head.” Rickon only shook his head.
“He doesn’t have to. You don’t have to. Just tell him what you said. You’re going to be the bloody queen someday, aren’t you? Don’t you have a say in it?” he asked.
“Of course! Anyway, it might not matter what either of us say, now. I am sure Lord Tarly is hunting her even this moment. He’s slain brigands before, this will be no different.” She rounded on him, crossing her arms across her chest.
“If he finds his way out of the Wolfswood alive, he will be a very lucky man,” Rickon replied. Shireen’s face went pale.
“What did you do?”
“I’ve done nothing. What Yna and the others will do to him if he’s foolish, I can’t say.” He smiled a little, looking amused, but Shireen’s scowl, followed hard by a slap, wiped it from his face. The wolf growled, but the princess did not even flinch, meeting Rickon’s eyes furiously.
“If he dies, it will be on your head. This is no joke.” The boy rubbed the side of his face warily.
“Apparently not. I will retrieve him, if you so fear for him. For your sake, and Sam’s, I suppose,” he said reluctantly.
“But you should be glad, you know. The free folk don’t just listen to anyone. You, they listened to. They respect King Stannis, and they’ll follow you just as well.” With a tug on his wolf’s ear, the boy and the beast walked from the clearing, passing by Davos without a word.
*****
“He deserved to be slapped.”
“You’re right, he absolutely did, sweetling.”
*****
The light was fading by the time that Lord Stark and Lord Tarly returned to Winterfell. A man set to watch from the walls from the Hunter’s Gate called out a warning that a rider approached from the wood, repeated by the man who burst into the Great Hall, where all waited for word. They emerged out into the courtyard, some murmuring curses at word that only a single rider approached, just as the loping horse, trailed by a shadowy wolf, entered the gates.
Rickon Stark rode the horse, but lashed across the saddle’s pommel was draped the bound form of Dickon Tarly. Somewhere, a lady screamed, perhaps fearing him dead, but Davos saw that he was very alive, particularly once Stark unceremoniously dumped him to the cobblestones and dismounted. The younger man’s face was set in a mask of fury. Tarly’s face, however, was harder to decipher, swelling as it was with dark bruises.
“Lord Stark, what is the meaning of this?” the king demanded as Shireen hurried forward with a gasp toward Dickon where he sprawled on the ground.
“Your Grace, this guest of yours was trying to butcher my people,” he snarled, while the wolf paced behind him.
“Treasonous bastard,” Dickon said, spitting a mouthful of blood as he sat up, working at his bonds. “I was trying to catch the bitch that you let escape.”
“But you could not find her, could you, noble ser?” Rickon snapped in reply, disdain in every syllable. “So you were going to take it out on anyone you found. You damn near killed that woman, you damned coward. And you burned her house to the ground with your fool ideas of justice, trying to smoke out your quarry. You’re a child playing with toys, and these are my lands and people, not yours.” He lashed out with a booted foot, knocking Tarly to the ground once again as he attempted to rise.
“Enough, Lord Stark.” The king gestured to a member of the kingsguard to step forward and haul Dickon to his feet, cutting his rough bonds. Stark bowed roughly.
“Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness. But I could not allow him to run free on my lands, harming my people.”
“He was pursuing a traitor who thought to kill my daughter, Stark,” the king said, his voice as cold as ice.
“A woman who thought of it, but did not. Your daughter can tell you herself that the woman never loosed an arrow or made an attempt on her life. She was threatened, it is true. I take the blame for allowing to happen on my lands, but butchering the once free folk in numbers will do nothing to protect her, Your Grace. Not the least of which from this great fool, who would murder children,” he added, pointing a finger at Dickon Tarly.
“Children? What were you thinking, ser?” It was Shireen’s voice then, and her disgust toward the Lord of Horn Hill was palpable. His eyes shone with passionate conviction in the light of the torches that ringed the courtyard, and he pleaded with her.
“I thought only of you, princess, and your safety. I did all that I could to catch the woman, and any who aided her. You must see, Shireen, this is why you must let me make these decisions for you. As a woman, no one would expect you to countenance what must happen in times of war. A Queen’s role is different, more sacred. I could never let you…”
The slap echoed loudly across the courtyard, and all were shocked to silence, particularly Dickon Tarly, and if that broken nose did not hurt before, Davos judged, it certainly did now. Shireen stared down the man who had been speaking until that moment, wiping her hand clean of his blood and sweat on her cloak with a look of disgust.
“I do not think I could ever let you continue that sentence, Lord Tarly. So be silent.” She turned away and looked to Rickon.
“You know by name the woman who threatened me today,” she said. “You will find her, and you will send her to the Wall. Lord Commander Snow still keeps an all-female garrison, the Masked Sisters, at Queensgate. She will join them. You will join us when we leave for the wall, and bring her yourself, in fact.” Rickon nearly hesitated, but he bowed before her.
“As you will, princess.”
“I do.” She turned to her father. “The Wall is for all criminals, even the very worst. Will this be acceptable over her head on a pike?” Stannis did not seem particularly pleased, but then, he never did. He assented with a brief nod.
“As you say, even the worst criminals may be sent to the Wall for their crimes. I am content.”
*****
“He really deserved to be slapped,” piped up a sleepy voice.
“Undoubtedly.”
*****
Even in the depth of summer, the Wall was frigid and unyielding, and snow swirled in the air. Davos could only be grateful that it was warm compared to what he had known during the wars upon bringing Rickon back to win the north to Stannis. This was nothing, to that, but still brisk, and yet bracingly refreshing after the stifling heat of fires, food and bodies gathered together to feast, not to mention the flowing wine. Lord Commander Snow had welcomed King Stannis as the friend he was, and though the occasion was solemn, as honors were heaped on Snow and the entire Watch, it was also a time of revelry, as those who remembered the wars celebrated surviving them.
He shrugged his fur-lined cloak more closely about himself and stepped out into the snowy courtyard, the chill prickling his face. He breathed deep, and then stopped short. Across the way, standing in the falling snow, stood the princess and Rickon Stark. She was draped in her heavy red cloak from head to toe, and he wore furs, nearly as black as the wolf that normally never left his side, though Davos had seen the beast gamboling with its snow-white brother, and suspected they were nowhere near. It reminded him strikingly of how he had found them in the Winterfell godswood, though this time, neither seemed angry, nor amused. The spoke quietly, breath frosting the air, and snow swirling around their heads.
“It has been good to see Jon again. He does not visit often. He can’t, as Lord Commander,” he said wistfully.
“It brings back strange memories to be here,” she said softly. “I was so frightened, then. And now, it feels very distant.”
“It is. It was a long time ago. I remember a little. Less than you, even, probably. I suppose I am lucky, that way. I think about now, more than then. There will be a time when people won’t remember what happened, and think it was all magic and myth. Someone will need to remember enough to remind them,” he said, shaking his head.
“That will be my job. I will be queen, someday. I won’t let them forget.” She lifted her chin, staring into his eyes. They were of a similar height, and if she pulled herself up fully on her heeled boots, she almost seemed taller. He only smiled ruefully.
“I don’t doubt you.”
“Lord Stark, will you come back to King’s Landing with us, if I ask it?” she said suddenly. The boy looked gobsmacked, shaking his head from side to side like a confused animal.
“Why would you think of me in King’s Landing? I hardly think I should fit amongst your court folk…” Shireen smiled at the thought.
“I think that is precisely why I would like you to come back with us. Well, at least in part. I might need you again, you know,” she said quietly.
“You didn’t need me to save your life. You told her what she needed to hear, and you don’t need me to deal with Dickon. You slapped the thoughts out of his head, and Maester Samwell has been cramming the good ones right back into him, I think.” They both laughed a little at that, and finally Shireen sighed.
“You’re right. I do not need you, in truth. But I think I might want you there, all the same. Lord Davos is the man my father relies upon to tell him the truth, always. You may be the only person, besides him, who has done the same for me in the time I have known you,” she explained.
“You want me to be your Hand?” he asked, his voice incredulous. She shook her head briskly.
“No, no. Well. Not exactly. I just… Oh, come to King’s Landing, will you? Father is king. Davos is his Hand. We don’t have to be anything, yet, but I want you to come in any case. We can see what happens,” she said finally.
“Besides, I want to see Shaggy at court. It would be wonderful to see all those ridiculous courtiers running for their lives a time or two,” she added, grinning. He matched her expression, a crooked smile on his face.
“That might be worth it.”
Davos found himself entirely pleased, and it wasn’t all to be blamed on the wine.
*****
In the morning, Septa Neryssa was nearly frantic. She had fallen asleep in her chair outside the children’s room, only to rise before dawn and find that three of the little hellions had somehow slipped past her in the night. Prowling around the keep to the rhythmic sound of rainfall, she crept up to the lord’s reading chamber, calling out softly for the children, trying to find their hiding place, only to see the door slightly ajar. Sending up a prayer to all seven gods - and any others who might be listening, pragmatic as she was - she gently, slowly pushed open the door.
Inside, the lord was fast asleep, head thrown back in his chair, with little Dalla and Alys curled up on his lap, one head on each of his shoulders, and roguish Rolland sleeping on the desk, his head in his hands. She laughed softly to herself, slipped out, and closed the door.