DAVOS
Drums beat and skinpipes wailed. In the firepit the flames leapt and swirled, snatching hungry bites out of the sky, and Davos did not want to know what was roasting on the spit above it. A scatter of rude low huts, built of snow and draped in pegged-up sealskins, were connected by a chaos of muddy paths, and every one of them was running riot with feral-looking dogs, shrieking children, young boys in blue face paint, and women in heavy cloaks, hauling cauldrons and dung for the fires and babes in cradleboards, shouting questions at the returning warriors. As they were marched closer, every step burning in Davos' twisted ankle, he turned his head this way and that, in some misbegotten hope of catching a glimpse of anyone who might potentially be Rickon Stark. Lord Manderly had told him that the boy took after his lady mother in his Tully coloring, blue eyes and auburn hair, rather than the dark hair and grey eyes of his lord father. But it was worse than impossible.
Davos' back still felt as if someone had torn a hole in it, which in fact someone had. The boiled-leather gambeson he wore beneath his cloak had prevented the arrow from penetrating more than a finger or two, but he could feel blood trickling beneath his smallclothes. Wex was considerably worse off; a burly Skagosi raider had slung him negligently over his shoulder, and the limp way in which Wex dangled suggested that he was unconscious. Not that he would have been a great deal of help if he was awake, but Davos felt utterly alone, a captive in a sea of hostile and savage peoples.
As they entered the settlement, the skinpipes stopped, but the drums continued to keep a low, ominous time. Then a big man clad in horn and fur and bead and bone, seabird feathers and chunks of amber braided into his wild grey mane, rose from his place by the central fire. He strode forward, saying something in a booming voice, the language he spoke as old and rumbling and primal as an avalanche. The chieftain's eyes were yellow, his teeth brown and broken, and his breath smelled overwhelmingly of fish. He grabbed Davos' chin and barked what was unmistakably a demand for him to explain himself.
"Stark," Davos said desperately. "Stark!"
It was impossible to tell if the chieftain understood. He snorted, turned away, and spat copiously, then snatched Wex off the raider's shoulder and smacked him briskly on the cheeks until he came to, eyes blurry with pain. The big Skagosi then asked the same thing.
"He can't talk," Davos shouted, and when the chieftain glared at him, he pointed to his mouth and shook his head. If they killed Wex, he was a dead man too.
The chieftain clearly did understand that, however. He gave another grunt, this one of surprise, and pried Wex's mouth open to peer inside. Apparently finding nothing to his interest, he spat again and pushed through the curious crowd back to Davos. He made a brusque gesture, and the two raiders holding the onion knight's arms dropped him unceremoniously on the ground.
Davos spat out a foul mouthful of mud, ice, and shit. He struggled to his knees, but was prevented from rising any further by the chieftain's huge horny hand on his head. The wildling matter-of-factly pawed him all over, yanked Davos' dagger from its sheath, admired it, thrust it through his own belt – then came across the black glass blade. He said something that sounded like an oath at the top of his lungs, and as he held it aloft, silence fell across the entire camp. Women clutched their children close, even the dogs seemed to cease their barking. The Skagosi turned it about as delicately as if it was made of crystal, staring.
He knows what it is. That did not outstandingly benefit Davos, as he himself was still unsure, but if it was something that could prove of any use, he was going to cling to it for all he was worth. Metaphorically speaking, that was.
At last, when the chieftain turned back to Davos, his voice was quieter and more urgent. He prodded a finger in his chest, asking insistently, but Davos could only shake his head in complete incomprehension. Seeing this, the chieftain growled and beckoned to a boy nearby, who vanished into one of the hovels.
Shortly he returned, leading a tall, tough, sinewy-looking woman. She was dressed in the same fashion as the others, furs and skins and leathers, two ocher stripes painted on each cheekbone and her long hair plaited messily down her back. Then she opened her mouth and said, in perfectly understandable Common Tongue, "What's your name, southerner?"
It actually took Davos a moment to remember. "Davos. Ser Davos Seaworth." He debated on whether or not to add his titles, and decided against it. The Skagosi were the last people who would be impressed by it, and on the very, very off chance that some of the others spoke the Common Tongue as well, he wanted to give them no chance to connect him to Stannis. Not so long as his king remained in the north, entangled with the affairs of Boltons and wildlings.
"Davos," the woman repeated, with a faint smile. "Well then. Hjalmarr Bjornsson here wishes t' know where you're coming by that pretty black knife."
Davos struggled momentarily for a lie, but his innate honesty, combined with his desperation, won out. "Lord Wyman Manderly, of White Harbor, gave it to me."
Something flickered in her eyes at that. He could almost have sworn that she recognized the name, but the wildling woman said only, "Why?"
"I've come here on his behalf." Davos hesitated, wondering if he dared to take the risk. The continued drip of blood down his back, and the agonizing ache in his ankle, made up his mind that he did. "I'm looking for Rickon Stark."
"Who?" the woman said blandly.
"Rickon Stark, the youngest son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. All his brothers are dead, and so he is heir to Winterfell. Lord Manderly has a vested interest in seeing him restored to his rightful seat." And so do I. Stannis' path to the Iron Throne became a virtual certainty, if the north was won and the Boltons overthrown.
"Well, it'll be a disappointment, m'lord, you coming so far and all. But we don't know who you're talking about." The woman shrugged. "Hjalmarr does like him that dagger o' yours, though."
She is lying. Without knowing from whence the thought came, Davos was nonetheless certain of it. He could hardly have been in a weaker bargaining position: hurt, alone, and in danger of having his heart and liver eaten for supper, the only thing he had that they wanted already in their hands. He was going to have to improvise.
The woman conferred with Hjalmarr Bjornsson, as the chieftain's name seemed to be, in an undertone. Then unexpectedly, she smiled. "You and that boy o' yours seem a bit the worse for wear." Her eyes lingered on Wex. "Follow me, there's the crones will patch you up."
Davos tried to get to his feet, but nearly fell when he put weight on his ankle. The woman caught him before he could, however, and draped his arm over her shoulders, taking most of his weight. Clutching her, he hopped and skipped to one of the tents, someone presumably following with Wex. As he did, he noticed that the warriors were walking the surrounds of the village, lighting a triple palisade of torches. The sun had slipped behind the icy sawtooth of mountains about half an hour ago, but from the terse, abstracted way in which the wildlings went about their task, Davos did not think they were doing it merely for light or for warmth. I must understand what is going on here. It was his only chance of gaining any currency with Hjalmarr and his tribe, of finding out what the wildling woman knew about Rickon. She could be the one Manderly mentioned, his guardian. Her name, what was her name?
They reached the tent, and Davos and Wex were deposited on a bed of scratchy furs. The crones, a gang of wizened old women, their skin seamed and brown with wind and weather, gathered around. They wore their grey hair long and straight, pinned with bone and bronze clasps, and Davos closed his eyes as they tended him; he could not understand their talk but found it comforting nonetheless. Their hands were wrinkled but deft, and they cleaned him up, applied some foul-smelling unguent to his ankle, and wrapped it tight in strips of skin. He only screamed once, when they dug out the fragments of the flint arrowhead that had broken off in his back. Afterward, they gave him a cup of some strong, bracing broth, chunks of fat bobbing in it, and Davos slurped it gratefully. Nothing more appeared to be required of him, and he lay with his face against the furs, listening to Wex's guttural whimpers as the crones tended to him.
Outside the tent, the drums started up again, and the skinpipes; it sounded as if the entire village was gathering around the fire for supper. Whatsoever that may be, Davos was at least grateful that he constituted no part of it. A voice that did not belong to Hjalmarr spoke, and he wondered if it was the shaman. Asking the gods who these intruders truly are, perhaps.
Finally, it began to grow quiet. Wex's breathing deepened from pained whimpering to ragged snores. Davos himself was equally exhausted, but he lay just under the surface of a doze, waiting for the interpreter to return. She would, eventually. And then. . .
It felt close to midnight when she did, pushing aside the heavy flap and admitting ghostly moonlight. She stepped over the patients, said something in the Old Tongue to the crone tending the fire, and both of them laughed softly. Then the crone closed her eyes, and the woman turned to go. But as she passed, Davos reached up and grabbed her mukluk. Taking a chance as terrible as any he had in his smuggling days, he whispered, "Osha?"
She froze. He felt it beyond doubt, and vindication surged through him. She tensed as if considering whether to make a break for it, but the only way to keep him from asking again was to kill him. And she couldn't do that, not with Hjalmarr having taken such a proprietary interest in Davos and his weaponry. She expelled a hard, angry breath through her nose and said, "Aye?"
Slowly, deliberately, Davos sat up, keeping hold of her. If it came to any sort of scuffle, he was likely to wind up on the short end of it, but for now, she didn't appear inclined to wake the entire camp on his behalf. "You," he whispered. "You lied. You know where Rickon is."
Osha swatted his hand off. "Did I, ser southerner? Well then, fair's fair. You did too."
"What?" For a moment, Davos was afraid that she meant something to do with Stannis.
"Him," Osha hissed, pointing at Wex's slumbering silhouette. "I know who he is. He was there at Winterfell when the squids took it. He was the smiley squid prince's squire, hisself."
Davos saw no point in denying it. "Yes, Wex was Theon Greyjoy's squire. But Theon himself is a prisoner in the Dreadfort, paying for his crimes, and Lord Manderly's intentions in seeking Rickon are sincere."
Osha snorted. Kneeling down, she leaned close and whispered, "It wasn't the Greyjoys what burned and sacked Winterfell and put all its people to the sword. Oh, they didn't do no good, t' be sure. But it was them Boltons who did the rest. Bran said so. From seeing with his wolf. And we saw it as well when we climbed from the crypt."
"Bran is alive?" Would he have to choose between one Stark son or the other?
Realizing she had made a mistake, Osha tried to shrug it off. "He was, a long time ago. Now, there's no telling."
Davos saw his chance. "Lord Wyman knows the crimes of the Boltons as much as you. It is only by bringing Rickon home that we can conquer the north back from their foul rule."
It was hard to tell what Osha thought of this. Finally, abruptly, she said, "That black glass o' yours. Is there more of it somewhere?"
"I imagine so. Why?"
"Hjalmarr and t' rest of us. We have what you might call an interest in knowing."
"I could certainly never bring more of it unless I returned to White Harbor," Davos said. "And I will not return to White Harbor without Rickon and his wolf."
Osha gave him a faint, sardonic smile, acknowledging the gambit. Then without another word, she rose to her feet and slipped out, a gust of bitterly cold air swirling through the flap when she opened it. Shivering, Davos closed his eyes and slipped under into fitful sleep.
In the morning when Osha came to fetch him, she gave absolutely no sign that anything whatsoever had passed between them in the night, and Davos followed her example. She led him to another tent, this one larger and somewhat more grandiose, where Hjalmarr, the crones, and the shaman were awaiting his presence. The Skagosi chieftain greeted Davos genially if still incomprehensibly, and offered him a drink from a curved horn filled with a strong dark brew. Then he bid him sit on a quilted patchwork of pelts. With Osha serving as translator, the meeting began.
Hjalmarr's demands were simple: he wanted more of the black glass, and he wanted it now. He was not inclined to listen to any of Davos' explanations or evasions, and at one point became so overwrought that he stormed around the tent bellowing and waving his arms. Davos, who had faced down every sort of fit or temper tantrum from clients, criminals, cutthroats, authorities, pirates, fellow smugglers, priests, and noblemen, was not intimidated, but still knew that he had to be very careful with the Skagosi. In turn, he simply and stubbornly repeated that he wanted something as well, and they too knew what it was.
Finally, discovering that he could not browbeat his prisoner into a bargain, Hjalmarr changed his tune. It was essential, he conveyed through Osha, that Davos be proved as a strong man, and his black glass as the true totem, not the false – if that was so, they would consider further terms with him. To uncover if this was so, he would be performing the clan a certain service tonight, on the slopes of Mount Vinterben beyond the bounds of the camp.
Davos was not at all sure he liked the sound of this. "Service? What service?" he pressed, but Hjalmarr and the others remained unforthcoming. They would fetch him when it was time, he was given to understand. In the meantime, it would be wise to make any prayers or sacrifices to his gods that he had in mind. This was just the thing to make Davos mislike it even more, but he could not see that he had a choice. That answered quite clearly what the price of failure was, then. He had no idea what he would be doing, not exactly, but a horrible suspicion was slowly beginning to germinate.
He spent all afternoon in the crones' tent, doing little. At dusk, a pair of maidens came to him, carrying new clothes sewed of sealskin, and one of them carefully painted blue lines on his unshaven cheeks. Her touch made him sad; he wondered what it would be like to have a daughter. Mayhaps if I ever get home. . . it grows fainter every day, but still. . . my Marya and I, we are not yet in the winter of our age. . .
The sun was going down when he was brought outside. Four young warriors waited, unsmiling. One of them handed him the black glass dagger, and he fell in with them. It might well be that I go to my death tonight. Weep for me if you will, my lady. But be strong for Devan and Steff and Stanny. Quietly, he touched the seven-pointed star on himself.
The village occupied a sheltered spot in the lee of the hills, and they quickly climbed above it, to a broad, steep, sprawling snowfield. Ahead, the sunset inked shadows like thumbprints on the white shoulders of the mountain. There was an exposed outcrop of rock about halfway up, and it was there that they seemed to be making. The young men were picking up speed as they climbed; it was plain that they wanted to be out no longer than they absolutely had to be.
At last they reached the rock, which proved to in fact be a cave, no more than a few yards deep. From here, Davos could see for hundreds of miles to the south and east and west, the glimmering icy sea and the mountains and even, away on his right in the very far distance, something on the mainland that might have been the Wall. His guides bowed to him in turn, and said something that might have been a prayer. Then, with no further instructions, they turned about and departed down the mountainside, leaving him sitting in the shallow, frigid cave with the black knife, one torch, one flask of the bitter dark brew, and some sort of roasted meat wrapped in skins. He was very hungry, but afraid to touch it.
It grew darker. Far below, the torches around the village were lit. The cold made him drowsy, but he knew better than to sleep – even if it was the only foe he had to contend with tonight, a man who fell asleep in this weather was liable never to wake. It was said to be a comforting death, peaceful, that you felt no pain at the end. Davos, who had witnessed men burned alive in the red woman's fires, would take it nine-and-ninety times of a hundred, but not today.
The mantle of full night unfolded on the mountain. Still it was quiet; the wind was blowing away from the settlement. His back and ankle still hurt, and his belly was twisting into knots with starvation. So finally he gave in and took a mouthful of the brown greasy delicious flesh, trying very hard not to think about it. A bite, just a bite, but he was so hungry, and soon it was gone. I will prove whatever I must prove. I will not fail my king, or Lord Manderly or Rickon, I will not –
Davos caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
A shock of unpleasant surprise coursing through him, he snapped his head around. Nothing.
Suddenly that supper – whatever it might have been – was sitting like a rock. Mouth dry, he took a drink from the flask to wet it, and gathered his haunches under him, ignoring the rasp of pain. Whatever it was, he'd not –
There it was again.
This time, Davos looked as fast as he possibly could, but there was still nothing – only something that looked like a white silk scarf, rippling along the snow for a few moments before it vanished. There was no wind, no breath, no reason for it to look as if there was a shadow stealthily moving up the slope toward him.
Davos' fingers were nerveless on the hilt of the knife. "Mother have mercy," he whispered, and made the star again. "Mother, Mother, Mother have mercy."
But it was not the Mother's carved, serene face he saw. It was Melisandre's. The red priestess seemed to hover in the air before him, the ruby at her throat winking. The night is dark and full of terrors, ser onions, she whispered. Do you believe me now?
"No," Davos said aloud. His voice was choked and painful in the cold air. There were more shadows moving now, he was sure of it. He remembered another shadow that brought death, in the passage beneath Storm's End, Melisandre shining. "No!"
It is fire you stand against them with, and dragonglass. The gifts of R'hllor, the strength of the Lord of Light. Reach out your hand and take all the power you desire, Davos Seaworth. Rise, and become great and terrible. Rise, and become a worthy Hand to your king. Rise! Drive out these servants of the Great Other! Rise, and be victorious!
"No," he was still saying, over and over. Terror turned his stomach to water. One of the shadows lifted its head. Then another. Snow crunched under no mortal feet, and no print was left, as they began to crawl, then rise, then glide, then charge. He had never seen eyes so blue.