FIC: "Those not dead" (Davos/Stannis, death!fic)
Title: Those not dead
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Davos/Stannis
Rating: PG
Words: 1005
Warnings: Death (both characters)
Summary: As dawn breaks after Westeros's latest and last Long Night, a stag and an onion lie in the snow with fatal wounds on their bodies and dreams of spring in their heads.
Notes: Written for the latest comment fic meme at got_exchange; prompt requested was tragedy and death. In this universe, the Long Night has been forestalled/broken with help from everyone remaining alive after ADwD, but most of them are not still alive by the time the dawn breaks.
It couldn't have been more than twice, maybe three times, but it seemed like half his adult life had been spent believing Davos Seaworth dead. After Blackwater, at the hands of Wyman Manderly, at the hands of Skagosi cannibals--the Onion Knight was dead more often than he was alive.
The Onion Lord, he reminded himself. My Lord of the Rainwood, my admiral of the ships of the Narrow Sea, my Hand...without one of his hands, reminding me of my duty, forever telling me the truth and nothing more and nothing less.
"Don't lie to me, Lord Davos. Not now. Not...ever."
Next to him, sprawled in a growing puddle of red in the snow, Davos smiled, revealing missing teeth in a face covered in bruises, black frostbite, and burns. "I did not lie. Your Grace. Look and...you will see the dawn. Close your eyes...hear dragon song."
If I close my eyes I will see and hear no more. If I close my eyes my own bruises and dead body parts and gaping ice-blade holes will finally swallow me whole. But Davos was correct about the faint greenish tinge to the east, as well as of the roar of Daenerys Targaryen's great brutish fire lizards. Even now the black one was circling overhead, screaming, louder than before but more sorrowfully, too, if that were possible.
"Drogon is sad. Your Grace. I wish I knew...why. Perhaps his rider..."
He grunted in reply, coughed, although he could feel his mouth twitch in the attempt to smile. "My brother tried... a thousand times to kill Dae...Targaryen, and she has done it...to herself? That's of a piece...with the justice the septons and the red priests--a prettier song than Robert's little--brother--lying dead in the snow."
"You're not dead yet, Your Grace."
This time he did smile, faintly, as he watched the great black beast swirling and keening in the air. "But I'm dying."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And so are you, Lord Davos."
"Yes, Your Grace. I'm dying on...the snow alongside my king, Your Grace."
He turned to look at Davos, bruise by bruise, with a tight chest he couldn't remember having a moment before and a fading smile. Each bruise on his own body was aching in the cold, and the blood freezing between his legs was sticky against the bits of his exposed skin that still had feeling.
"And is the dead king and...his Hand a...prettier song, while the Targaryens...win all over again?"
Davos's smile picked up where his had left off. "Pardons, Your Grace...I have never known you to care for...songs. And we all...won."
"Those not dead. Songs were...Renly's thing, what his nursemaid had entertained...him with at Storm's End until she starved. A fearsome large woman...some fool wanted to...wanted to eat her flesh."
Davos tried to laugh and wheezed instead, heaving on the ground. Weakly. When he spoke his voice was thinner, more distant than before.
"And cannibalism...it is not proper, Your Grace."
His own voice had to be torn, by force of will, from his chest. "No." In a gravel whisper he added, "And Renly would not...would not have liked it. The boy Renly. Not...the man, either. Maybe."
Renly's tear-stained eyes watched him out of the fog of memory, his tear-stained eyes and his peach and a tent all in green, with thrashing shadows in black and then curtains of white, a white wolf with red eyes that turned to the silent blue eyes of thousands of white beings fighting fire from the sky, torrents of flame, the burn of blades of ice in his thighs--hot and agonizing as his shadow-dreams, as the red woman around him, as the fire consuming Alester Florent alive.
His eyelids drooped as words came at him, words wrapped in fires and shadows.
"There will...be a song of this before....before the sun is risen again. Your Grace. A song of...spring, and all the pains to...get there."
"Of Drogon weep...weeping for Dae...for Targaryen. Of dragonfire melting ice demons and immortal wolf wargs kill...killing the undead." He wheezed, coughed. "Stags will be a mention, at...the Wall by the...wolf-boy. Onions not...not at all."
His body was so cold, everything was so cold, that one more layer of cold along his arm meant little or nothing. The stunted grip of half-fingers, however, meant more, in the dawn...the dusk...whenever and wherever they were.
"It's good, then," said Davos's breathy squeak by his ear, "that life...is not a song. What...they will sing...we never will know. And I...never will care...only sons..."
Shireen's grey face, fevered cries, blue eyes. And Devan--Devan at his shoulder, at Davos's shoulder then his own and the others named for his father, for him, for duty.
"Would that...someone teaches Devan to...play, so he can...sing. Of his father. The Onion."
The stumped fingers gripped more tightly at his own skin. "And the stag they served."
His eyelids had closed, had frozen instantaneously. Everything was black, and the dragon was mourning, and heat was rising somewhere to the east. Everything was white and black and blue, in him, around him, and ships were breaking apart in the bay and Robert was laughing and Renly was whining and there was a feast and his parents were dancing and a sept where he held the bride-cloak of Baratheon and a room where a baby cried in a female voice and a male voice, somewhere very near in space and very far in time, that said, "Your Grace, Your Grace..."
And he answered, or tried to, because all the bruises were gone and the cold fire, too, because that voice in his head, because that man, but nothing worked anymore, nothing, only the last bits of memory in his head--fading, dancing away--and the stump that blazed against his skin as he exhaled.
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Davos/Stannis
Rating: PG
Words: 1005
Warnings: Death (both characters)
Summary: As dawn breaks after Westeros's latest and last Long Night, a stag and an onion lie in the snow with fatal wounds on their bodies and dreams of spring in their heads.
Notes: Written for the latest comment fic meme at got_exchange; prompt requested was tragedy and death. In this universe, the Long Night has been forestalled/broken with help from everyone remaining alive after ADwD, but most of them are not still alive by the time the dawn breaks.
It couldn't have been more than twice, maybe three times, but it seemed like half his adult life had been spent believing Davos Seaworth dead. After Blackwater, at the hands of Wyman Manderly, at the hands of Skagosi cannibals--the Onion Knight was dead more often than he was alive.
The Onion Lord, he reminded himself. My Lord of the Rainwood, my admiral of the ships of the Narrow Sea, my Hand...without one of his hands, reminding me of my duty, forever telling me the truth and nothing more and nothing less.
"Don't lie to me, Lord Davos. Not now. Not...ever."
Next to him, sprawled in a growing puddle of red in the snow, Davos smiled, revealing missing teeth in a face covered in bruises, black frostbite, and burns. "I did not lie. Your Grace. Look and...you will see the dawn. Close your eyes...hear dragon song."
If I close my eyes I will see and hear no more. If I close my eyes my own bruises and dead body parts and gaping ice-blade holes will finally swallow me whole. But Davos was correct about the faint greenish tinge to the east, as well as of the roar of Daenerys Targaryen's great brutish fire lizards. Even now the black one was circling overhead, screaming, louder than before but more sorrowfully, too, if that were possible.
"Drogon is sad. Your Grace. I wish I knew...why. Perhaps his rider..."
He grunted in reply, coughed, although he could feel his mouth twitch in the attempt to smile. "My brother tried... a thousand times to kill Dae...Targaryen, and she has done it...to herself? That's of a piece...with the justice the septons and the red priests--a prettier song than Robert's little--brother--lying dead in the snow."
"You're not dead yet, Your Grace."
This time he did smile, faintly, as he watched the great black beast swirling and keening in the air. "But I'm dying."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And so are you, Lord Davos."
"Yes, Your Grace. I'm dying on...the snow alongside my king, Your Grace."
He turned to look at Davos, bruise by bruise, with a tight chest he couldn't remember having a moment before and a fading smile. Each bruise on his own body was aching in the cold, and the blood freezing between his legs was sticky against the bits of his exposed skin that still had feeling.
"And is the dead king and...his Hand a...prettier song, while the Targaryens...win all over again?"
Davos's smile picked up where his had left off. "Pardons, Your Grace...I have never known you to care for...songs. And we all...won."
"Those not dead. Songs were...Renly's thing, what his nursemaid had entertained...him with at Storm's End until she starved. A fearsome large woman...some fool wanted to...wanted to eat her flesh."
Davos tried to laugh and wheezed instead, heaving on the ground. Weakly. When he spoke his voice was thinner, more distant than before.
"And cannibalism...it is not proper, Your Grace."
His own voice had to be torn, by force of will, from his chest. "No." In a gravel whisper he added, "And Renly would not...would not have liked it. The boy Renly. Not...the man, either. Maybe."
Renly's tear-stained eyes watched him out of the fog of memory, his tear-stained eyes and his peach and a tent all in green, with thrashing shadows in black and then curtains of white, a white wolf with red eyes that turned to the silent blue eyes of thousands of white beings fighting fire from the sky, torrents of flame, the burn of blades of ice in his thighs--hot and agonizing as his shadow-dreams, as the red woman around him, as the fire consuming Alester Florent alive.
His eyelids drooped as words came at him, words wrapped in fires and shadows.
"There will...be a song of this before....before the sun is risen again. Your Grace. A song of...spring, and all the pains to...get there."
"Of Drogon weep...weeping for Dae...for Targaryen. Of dragonfire melting ice demons and immortal wolf wargs kill...killing the undead." He wheezed, coughed. "Stags will be a mention, at...the Wall by the...wolf-boy. Onions not...not at all."
His body was so cold, everything was so cold, that one more layer of cold along his arm meant little or nothing. The stunted grip of half-fingers, however, meant more, in the dawn...the dusk...whenever and wherever they were.
"It's good, then," said Davos's breathy squeak by his ear, "that life...is not a song. What...they will sing...we never will know. And I...never will care...only sons..."
Shireen's grey face, fevered cries, blue eyes. And Devan--Devan at his shoulder, at Davos's shoulder then his own and the others named for his father, for him, for duty.
"Would that...someone teaches Devan to...play, so he can...sing. Of his father. The Onion."
The stumped fingers gripped more tightly at his own skin. "And the stag they served."
His eyelids had closed, had frozen instantaneously. Everything was black, and the dragon was mourning, and heat was rising somewhere to the east. Everything was white and black and blue, in him, around him, and ships were breaking apart in the bay and Robert was laughing and Renly was whining and there was a feast and his parents were dancing and a sept where he held the bride-cloak of Baratheon and a room where a baby cried in a female voice and a male voice, somewhere very near in space and very far in time, that said, "Your Grace, Your Grace..."
And he answered, or tried to, because all the bruises were gone and the cold fire, too, because that voice in his head, because that man, but nothing worked anymore, nothing, only the last bits of memory in his head--fading, dancing away--and the stump that blazed against his skin as he exhaled.