DAVOS
For almost three days afterward he lay in a nightmarish haze of dreams and reality and cold that burned like flame. Sometimes he saw the red woman, other times his Marya, and the four strong sons he had led to a watery grave on the Blackwater. There was his Devan, at the Wall with Melisandre, but for some reason Davos could never see his face, and when he finally turned his eyes were as blue as death. Little Steff and Stanny flashed by like phantoms, and then last of all he saw his king. Stannis was grinding his teeth, as usual, and the face he turned on his Hand had all the aspect of a death mask. What takes so long, onion knight? he growled. Do you think I have forever to wait?
"No," Davos muttered feverishly, "no, you don't." Guilt twisted in him like a blade. Sometimes he would wake almost all the way and hear the whispering of the Skagosi crones, and he would remember where he was, that he was still alive, that he'd been saved. And then the darkness would rise over his head again, and all his dreams would be of snow.
Of the rescue itself, he recalled almost nothing. Only stabbing, stabbing with the black glass knife, seeing some of them melt and puddle away into icy smoke and suddenly understanding everything Lord Manderly had told him about the dagger, but at the same time he was atrociously aware that there were simply too many of them and he'd soon be overwhelmed. For a fleeting moment he thought of Stannis, and wanted to weep. How could any mortal man, even one who was said to be Azor Ahai reborn, possibly prevail against this foe?
He had been quite sure that that thought would be his last one. But then he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye, and a blaze of light. And while he was still staring dumbly, the wildling woman came charging up the mountainside, torches in both hands, and beside her the big black wolf that could only belong to Rickon Stark. Both of them plunged without hesitation into the middle of the wights. An instant later the night was awash in flaming, stumbling dead men.
Davos went down on one knee, barely aware of the coldness in his lower back, thinking madly that the Seven had heard, that they had answered his prayer. And then he remembered that the Seven had no power here, that he had never seen anything so primal as the way the big direwolf tore a wight almost in half and the unholy blaze of fire, Melisandre burning the Seven on the beach at Dragonstone, the torch in the cell where he'd been imprisoned after he'd tried to kill her, Porridge and Lamprey, down and down and down.
The next time Davos was aware of anything, he was naked under the furs in the crones' tent, his back still burning with cold. He remembered that he had taken an arrow there during their initial capture, but this was a different pain, far worse. Unconsciousness came as a blessing after that, but there was no respite in the things he saw. In his lucid moments, he tried to comfort himself with the fact that surely since Osha had not merely let him die out of hand, she must be willing to at least consider a bargain. If not, she could just have stayed safe within the circle of torches, and come to take the glass knife from his dismembered corpse in the morning.
At last, on the evening of the third day, he woke for good. One of the crones who had a few words of the Common Tongue came to tell him how long it had been, and to warn him not to overexert himself. He had been wounded by one of their blades, which was why he had diced so precariously with death, and no potion or tincture they used had been able to remove the ice from his flesh. It was a crusted cold slash, and when Davos put a fumbling hand to it, he pulled it back with a hiss. The crone shook her head at him reprovingly, said something in the Old Tongue, and then produced a gnarled, dirty stub of ivory which she brandished in his face. After much confused sign-language, Davos was finally given to understand that this was a unicorn horn, renowned for its healing properties, and that several young men of the tribe had been dispatched to kill one of the creatures and see if it would have any effect on this fell injury.
Davos was once more heartened by this, as it seemed a queer lot of trouble to go to on behalf of someone they intended to kill out of hand, and wondered how much the Skagosi and Hjalmarr Bjornsson knew about Osha and Shaggydog's part in his rescue. Perhaps he was now worthy of some honored station due to surviving the night on the mountain, and he wondered how on earth to explain it in a way that would not completely shatter this useful delusion. But he had just begun to concoct a barely plausible cover story when the flap was pushed aside, and Osha herself ducked into the tent.
She dismissed his caretaker with a few brusque words, and poured more seal oil onto the brazier, making it spit and hiss a foul-smelling smoke. But Davos was shivering even under the piles of furs, and he moved as close as he could. He waited until he was absolutely sure that they were alone before he spoke. "Thank you."
All that won him was a sour look. "If I had a lick o' sense I'd have left you to die out there." Osha took a seat on the crone's stool, watching him with eyes as hard and keen as a hawk's. "Instead I run into the middle of a pack o' bleeding Others as if I was some sort o' bleeding hero."
"But you did," Davos said. "Why?"
The wildling woman cocked her head. "Why indeed? You're a kneeler and a southerner and you have absolutely no sense turning up here after us. But for all that, you did, and I was none so sure I wanted t' see you perish at the hands of them dead bastards. And it's true as well that I've been thinking. The boy shouldn't have to spend his life entire on Skagos, and the gods know that the Boltons could use some sorting out. But no matter if that's so, Rickon is happy here, and – "
"Safe?" Davos finished wryly. "How long have the wights been coming at night?"
"He's a deal safer than he'd be back there, provided he don't wander beyond the torch ring after nightfall. But what I was going to say is that whether there or here, he's still the youngest of Lord Stark's sons. By your kneeler laws, that don't give him no claim unless all the rest are dead. Really dead, not hiding out like he is. And there's the other thing. You might eventually get Rickon onto a boat – aye, maybe, if you didn't mind being bit some. But I'd like to see you do it with Shaggy. That beast is as wild as this place, and it isn't only seal flesh he's developed a taste for."
Davos absorbed this in some dismay. In any other circumstances, he would have elected to hang the wolf and just take the boy, but in this case, the wolf was equally important, if not more so. Otherwise, no matter how much Rickon Stark looked like his lady mother, there would be no way to prove his identity beyond all question.
Still, Davos certainly did not intend to let himself be defeated by such trifling logistics. "Will the wolf do what the boy tells him?"
"Might," said Osha. "Might not. Or you might want to take up them old gods, smuggler."
Davos looked at her in startlement. "Why?"
She grinned crookedly. "Because a piddly seven gods won't be enough t' save you, if Shaggy decides he's not having it."
So I will take a half-wildling boy of five years, and an even wilder direwolf with an appetite for human flesh, on a dangerous voyage in a small currach back to White Harbor, on the frail and fading hope that Lord Manderly still lives and is in a position to make good on his offer. For a moment, Davos entertained the disloyal notion that he could not for the life of him see how this was going to work. But after coming this far and enduring this much, he would have brought back an Other itself, if that was what was needful.
"Well," Davos said at last. "I would hope that the fact we're having this conversation at all means that there is at least a chance. May I be permitted to meet the lad?"
Osha gave him a lingering, shrewd look. "You're stubborn, ser shorthand. No denying it. Here." She tossed him a long woolen robe, a sealskin mantle, a pair of furred mukluks that laced up to the knee, and his tattered leather breeches. "Get yourself dressed, and we'll see about it."
Davos did his best, but his hands were as clumsy as blocks of wood and his back was still on fire, so it took some time until he had managed even these simple garments and was stumbling after Osha into the cold, clear day. It seemed impossible that he could still be here, could be watching something so mundane as two old men sharing a bone pipe, a woman beading a dress, another matter-of-factly skinning and disemboweling a mountain goat. After all the images he had built in his head of the Skagosi as savage, bloodthirsty, unreasonable and witless cannibals, he was slowly coming to realize that they were no more and no less than human. I have seen the face of the true enemy. It made him wonder how Stannis' knights, as notoriously prickly of their honor as was their king, had fared in their new lodgings at the Wall, surrounded by crows and wildlings. Assuming there was that which remained to be lodged in. As he did about every other moment, Davos deplored how little he knew of Stannis' fate or plans or movements, and realized with a start that his king might well believe he was dead. Lord Manderly had prominently mounted that tar-dipped head and those shortened hands on the gates above White Harbor, after all, and there would be no one to inform Stannis that it was a fraud.
This thought made Davos quicken his pace, even though every step was clumsy and painful and he had to constantly grab Osha's arm. She gave him tolerantly irritated looks but did not order him to stop, until at last they reached a broad snowfield where several children, both boys and girls, were playing some sort of violent ballgame. Even as Davos watched, one of the older boys knocked flat one of the younger ones, who bounced up and began spitting a fluent stream of curses (or at least if they were not curses, they certainly sounded like them). He was tall for his age, compact and strong, with a tumbled mane of hair that glinted almost as red as Melisandre's in the sunlight, and Davos was not at all surprised when Osha called, "Rauður mínn. Here."
Startled, and clearly somewhat annoyed at being interrupted right in the middle of teaching the bully a lesson, Rickon nonetheless broke off and trotted over. Davos inclined his head. "My lord of Stark. Good morrow."
The child studied him suspiciously, eyes blue and frowning beneath thick brows. After a moment he turned to Osha and asked something in the Old Tongue, to which she replied, pointedly, in the Common. "This is Ser Davos Seaworth, who's come on behalf o' Lord Wyman Manderly, of White Harbor. You'll recall him."
"The fat man," Rickon said. "Aye." He giggled.
"Not only him." He had to tell them, Davos decided. "Ultimately on behalf of my king, whose Hand I am. Stannis Baratheon, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, who fights in the north against the Boltons who sacked your home of Winterfell. If you are returned to it as your rightful seat, Lord Manderly will accept Stannis as his king. I hope. . . I hope that in your gratitude, my lord, you will see fit to do the same."
"Nuh-uh," Rickon said forcefully, shaking his head. "Robb's the King in the North. Robb, not Stannis."
"Your brother is dead, my lord." Davos took care to keep his voice calm and level. "I am sure Lord Manderly told you. He lost a son at the Red Wedding as well, and so – "
"No!" Rickon's own voice rose stridently. "You're a liar, you're a lying fat liar! You're just like Theon, Theon was a liar too, he lied and killed everybody in Winterfell and he betrayed Robb too, I hate him! I hate him!"
Davos fought the urge to take a step back, reminding himself that he was quite foolish to be cowed by any display of emotion from a five-year-old, no matter how vehement. He thought again of what Wyman Manderly had said to him. The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and this mummer's farce is almost done. Rickon had lost everything he had ever known in the world, no matter what faint solace he had found here on Skagos. Small wonder his cynicism far outstrips his age.
Still, Davos did not intend to let it carry on indefinitely. "My lord. I understand your anger, but I am not Theon Greyjoy. Nor is Stannis the sort of man who means – "
"NO!" Rickon screamed, fists clenched and face crimson. "NO, I WON'T!" And with that, he bounced forward and kicked Davos soundly in the shin.
At that, Davos' patience abruptly evaporated. The rightful Lord of Winterfell Rickon Stark may be, and the pivot on which Stannis' cause turned as well, but he was also a headstrong, spoiled brat, and at the moment, he was acting full like it. Besides, being a father to seven sons had taught Davos a few things about dealing with misbehaving boys. He reached down, snatched Rickon by the shirt, and bent him smartly over his knee. Then, while the lad was still too astonished to struggle, Davos smacked him hard, twice, on the bottom.
Osha observed this with a sardonically amused smile. "Can't say you didn't have that coming, rauður mínn," she remarked to Rickon. "And he'll do it again, if you vex him."
"I have not come to play games, no," Davos informed him. "I intend to leave as soon as I can, and you, your wolf, and Osha – if she so wishes – will be accompanying me."
"Won't go," Rickon said, with somewhat less conviction than before.
"I am not terribly interested in your opinion, my lord. Only your cooperation." Davos looked back at Osha, trying not to think too closely about what she'd said about cooping up Shaggydog on a small boat for over a fortnight at sea. "I will agree to whatever I must, with Hjalmarr and the others. You will take me to them?"
"I suppose I might," Osha agreed, after a moment. She gave Rickon a push. "Go back to your friends for the moment, child. Try not to give any of them cause t' kill you, if you wouldn't mind." Then she turned and strode briskly away, Davos following her at what could best be termed a valiant hobble. His shin ached where Rickon had kicked him, and that only fueled his grim determination. I am through with games.
The chieftain and the shaman were huddled together, talking in agitated voices, when Osha pushed into their tent with never so much as a by-your-leave. They looked up with narrowed eyes, then caught sight of the resurrected party behind her and stared openly. The shaman made a sign to ward against ghosts, and Hjalmarr said something to Osha that sounded both accusing and dumbstruck. She shrugged and answered, utterly unfazed.
Davos moved forward. "You will consider any tests passed, I trust?" He could not blame them overmuch for their stupefaction. After all, when you threw a man out into a desolate wilderness at night, in cold and snow, not even to mention the stalking dead things all around, you did not necessarily expect to see said man strolling into your tent three days later, looking only minorly the worse for wear. At least, not alive.
"Hjalmarr says he remembers your demands," Osha said, after the chieftain had held forth at some length in an emphatic, guttural voice. "He says he is pleased that the knife has done so well. And he says that you will remember that he wants more of the glass. Soon."
"When my king's victory is won," Davos answered, "I will be glad to fulfill my promise." He meant it, too. If taking Rickon home won Stannis' war in even the barest measure, he would come back to Skagos with a whole hold of dragonglass.
"That is too late," Hjalmarr said, through Osha. "They grow stronger every night. Soon the fire will not be enough to keep them away."
"My king's war is as grave as your people's." Davos refused to be swayed. He could not fight his way through the entire clan to take Rickon away, if Hjalmarr decided to be difficult, but he somehow had the feeling that he was already out of time. "I will be at his side, come what may. Then I'll return. I swear it."
"You will." Osha's voice captured the same threat as Hjalmarr's. "You will swear it. You will leave the boy here as your bond, and make your oath in your own blood. Then, and only then, you will have leave to go."
"Boy?" For a moment, Davos was afraid that they meant Rickon.
"Wex. The squid squire. He will stay with the tribe until you bring the black glass."
"Wex is an innocent," Davos protested. "A mute. It was thanks to him that I knew to come to Skagos at all. Keep him if you must, but do him no harm. This is not his quarrel."
Osha and Hjalmarr gave him matching enigmatic smiles. "That depends, shorthand," Osha said. "On how fast you want t' return with that glass."
If the route to Skagos is even still passable by then. There were a thousand possible eventualities between this day and that one. The only way to know was to start turning some of them into fact.
Davos drew the black glass knife from its sheath; he had been astonished to find it beside him when he woke. Like as not the wildlings had feared to take it from him, without knowing the true nature of his battle on the mountain. "As is asked," he said, "I will swear in my blood. Hjalmarr will do the same, yes?"
The wildling chieftain's yellowed, bloodshot eyes were fixed on him, narrow and shrewd. Then he grunted, drew Davos' own dagger from his belt, and slashed his hairy palm.
A man trying to do his best to save his people, against an invincible foe and impossible circumstances. This insight bred a sudden, almost crippling empathy in Davos. He lifted his own hand and cut it with the black blade.
At once, he was forced to his knees by the stomach-turning pain that ripped through him – not from his hand but from his back, and the icy wound dealt by the Other's blade. In fact it was so bad that for a moment Davos was temporarily dislocated from his own body, and when he looked into his eyes, they were blue. Before he had time to consider this or what it meant, he was back as he should be, gasping. And then, it hit.
The dragonglass kills them, and now there is something of them in me. If I die, I will become a wight – or I may yet become one nonetheless, with this slow poison spreading inside me. Horror rendered Davos momentarily speechless. In his head he could hear the red woman whispering of fire, of how fire was the only cure. A disease like greyscale, proliferating slowly and invidiously, until he was turned not to stone but to ice.
Neither Hjalmarr nor Osha appeared to have reached this conclusion with him. Rather, their expressions were of puzzlement and mild concern, waiting for him to stand up and complete the oath. He would, he knew. Whatever it cost him – from his fingers to his sons to his freedom to his life – Davos Seaworth always kept his oaths.
That night, he received his very own unicorn horn; apparently, the young hunters' quest had been successful. The crones bestowed it on him with much gesture and grandiloquence – this was a talisman which he was not to let out of his sight, would ward him against evil in the days to come. And there will be much and more. The unicorn itself, a shaggy goatlike creature with fur that smelled like overripe cheese, a jagged knob of bone on its sloped forehead showing where the horn had been broken off, was eaten for supper. Davos found the meat gamey and dry, but it was beyond all doubt preferable to the alternative.
Nonetheless, he was not hungry. His stomach churned. He still felt weak enough for even a modestly sized gust of wind to knock him over, but he had decided against spending any more time recuperating on Skagos. The gods alone know what I am turning into. All was set, and he, Osha, Rickon, and Shaggydog would leave at sunrise tomorrow, to give them the maximum chance of reaching the currach before nightfall. It would be a hard, dangerous slog in the best of circumstances, even though Hjalmarr had agreed to provide ponies to make the going somewhat quicker. In exchange, he'd wanted Davos to leave the glass knife right then and there, but Davos had finally haggled him out of it. If he was killed en route, he impressed upon the big chieftain, it would completely undo all their hopes of seeing another fleck of it.
When he finally retired to the crones' tent afterwards, Davos slept badly and shallowly; he kept having nightmares of Lord Manderly with his face skinned off. When that wasn't so, he lay looking at Wex and wondered what the boy thought of him, for so casually bartering his freedom away. Wex had bravely done his best to reassure Davos in sign language that he would be fine until he returned, but Davos could not shake the guilt.
As for Rickon, he had been transparently much more displeased, and it was not until Davos threatened to spank him again that the young Stark heir grudgingly subsided. Davos had no wish to mistreat the boy, of course, but he also had no interest in being his friend. So far as he could tell, Rickon – having literally been raised by wolves for the greater part of his young life – was in sore need of good firm paternal discipline, and mayhaps a dose or two would help stress to him the importance of the cause he was returning to champion.
At last, completely unable to sleep, Davos lay awake in the small hours and thought about what might be walking even now, just beyond the ring of torches. His back still throbbed. It frightened him almost as much as it had to see them swarming the mountain in the first place.
Yet dawn came, somehow. Groggy, hurting, and sad, Davos stumbled into his clothes and wraps, buckled his swordbelt around his waist – he had managed to talk Hjalmarr into returning it too – and wondered if he should wake Wex to bid farewell, then decided against it. Lingering on any of this would only make it the harder. I cannot look back.
He stepped out of the tent and found Rickon and Osha already waiting. Shaggydog was pacing back and forth, hackles raised and teeth bared, but at least he did not immediately go for Davos' throat. The three ponies, stolid square creatures almost as hairy and ill-smelling as the unicorn, were pulling nervously at their tethers, discomfited by the presence of the big wolf, and Davos could not fault them for it. "My lord," he said to Rickon, "if you will let him run ahead?"
"Shaggy stays with me," Rickon said stubbornly.
Deciding not to start their venture off with a quarrel, Davos did not press the point; he would need to win other, more important arguments later. The ponies were untied, and the three of them mounted up. Davos had been on the verge of asking if Rickon could ride alone, but upon seeing the deft way the child scrambled up, he swallowed the question. Indeed, as they set out from the village, Rickon went frisking ahead like a centaur, Shaggydog bounding at his side.
"Not too far, rauður mínn," Osha called after him. "The sun hasn't cleared the valley wall."
Rickon was either too far in front to hear – or, more likely, judiciously pretended that he hadn't. Davos made a mental note to bring it to the boy's attention later, as obeying their orders would prove absolutely critical if they intended for Rickon – or any of them – to survive the voyage. He was going to have to call on every last one of his old smuggler's tricks to get them back down the coast without detection, and then invent a few new ones to slip safely into White Harbor. He wondered if Manderly was back from Ramsay Bolton's wedding yet, and had no idea why there was a sickening sinking sensation in his stomach at the thought.
Osha knew a way through the mountains that was safer and more sheltered than the harrowing traverse Davos and Wex had blundered through, and they made better time than Davos had dared to hope. But it was still early afternoon after they'd stopped for as quick a meal as they could. Rickon had wandered off in pursuit of something interesting Shaggydog had smelled, and was sulking again after Davos scolded him for the delay.
The sun was nerve-rackingly close to the horizon by the time they finally cleared the rocky gulch and skidded down onto the beach; the last section had been so steep and narrow that they'd had to dismount and lead the ponies. There was no chance of bringing the animals on board, save for Shaggy. They'd have to turn them loose and trust their ancestral instinct to find their way home.
Davos and Osha ordered Rickon to stay close while they clambered into the rock fissure where the currach had been hidden, and began pulling the branches off. As they did, Osha said quietly, "You'd bloody well better know what you're about, ser."
"I do." Davos would freely admit his poisonous doubt to himself, but never to her. "I promised to Hjalmarr, and I will promise to you as well, my lady. I will see you delivered safe to Lord Manderly in White Harbor, and then Rickon to Winterfell, or die in the doing."
"My lady?" That seemed to amuse her. "But I almost think you mean it, shorthand. If only you could. The boy's nobody's savior, just a child, and his brother might still live. If you bring us back and then that's so, we should have stayed here."
"Might," said Davos. "Could. Should. If. These are dangerous words."
"So they are, at that," Osha acknowledged, pulling the last of the brush free with a grunt and staring at the revealed currach incredulously. "Bloody hells, that's your boat? I could break it in half with my own hands and pick me teeth with them twigs."
"It's stronger than it looks." Davos untied the bowline and paid it out. "Help me."
Silently, Osha did so, and the two of them dragged the boat through the sand to the water. It rolled up and down on the ice-white breakers tumbling into the beach, and she beckoned to Rickon. "On board, rauður mínn. Now."
"Here, Shaggy." Rickon whistled, and the black wolf leapt over the gunwale with such vigor that a wash of cold saltwater followed him in. Then Rickon himself clambered over, crawling under the hood of skins at the stern and peering out with a broad grin, having forgotten his earlier objections and now thoroughly ready for a new adventure. For a moment, Davos found himself softening to the boy. He missed his own sons so much.
Osha swung on board too, and Davos pushed the currach the rest of the way into the sea before climbing in himself. There wasn't much wind, so he slid the oars into the oarlocks and began to pull. For an instant, despite everything, he almost felt hopeful. Considering what he had faced five nights ago, for him to be here at all was a miracle, far less with the Stark boy in his custody.
Osha took the other set of oars. She rowed more strongly than Wex had, and even stronger than Davos himself; his ordeal had taken its toll. He couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder for one more look at Skagos, the island silhouetted spectral in the deepening twilight. Its cliffs were as black as ink, the bloated sun blood-red. The water was paved in an even darker color, tracking out to the uncertain horizon. But nonetheless he'd done it, he'd gotten them away, and then he would find Lord Manderly and –
Something nudged the boat from underwater.
Davos' attention immediately sharpened. It could have been a rock, or a seal, but. . . he was letting his imagination run too far away with him, he knew it. He firmly told himself not to be ridiculous, and kept on rowing. Once they got into the tide race, they'd be able to –
Something else knocked the boat. Once, and then again. They yawed sideways on the choppy waves, and Davos caught something moving out of the corner of his eye. Something too slow and clumsy to be a seal.
"What's that?" Rickon peered interestedly over the side. "There's faces. Faces in the water."
"Get away," Osha said, in a low urgent voice. "Get away from there, rauður mínn."
"Why?" Rickon frowned at her. "Are they mermaids? Mermaids aren't really real, they're just stories. And – "
Shaggydog bared his teeth. He started up a low, rumbling growl in his throat.
"Get the sail up," Davos ordered Osha. "I'll make all speed I can." His back throbbed and froze and burned. If he let himself acknowledge the panic, it would devour him, so he rowed faster.
Osha sprang up and ran out the canvas. It wasn't much; the currach only had one mast. But it snapped out and sang in the rising wind, and she fumbled a few clumsy knots. Wildlings were no seafarers. "You might want t' be checking it, ser," she said breathlessly. "Hold on, I'll take the oars, you can – "
At that moment, the first rotted hand burst from the water.
Rickon shrieked, reeling backwards and falling hard into Shaggydog, who grabbed his master's collar with his teeth and dragged him away. The hand was followed by another and then another, and then the wights were bursting up all around the boat, necrotic flesh gleaming wetly, bone glinting among torn tissue, opaque eyes staring and mouths working like a school of sharks. Some of them bit into the frame and the skins, others began crawling up the prow. Dead things in the water. Gods have mercy, have mercy, have mercy.
"Wildlings," Osha gasped, trying to knock one off the forecastle with her oar, "they was wildlings in their lives. In t' village – we heard tell – of four thousand wildlings and more – making for Hardhome – on the coast of the land beyond the Wall – "
And now they are all dead. Davos could not even allow himself to think, could only react. He still had the glass dagger, but it did not work on wights so well as it did on Others. Fire, they needed fire, but on a frail boat in the middle of an icy ocean, their enemies all around and behind and below, it was utter madness. But they had to drive them off somehow, had to –
One of the wights groped blindly for Rickon. The boy shrieked again and smacked it away from him, and Shaggydog lunged so far over the side that he nearly capsized them, clamping the struggling wight in his jaws while it thrashed and lurched horribly like an insect driven through with a pin. Osha was still fighting the one on the forecastle, and Davos stabbed one that came pawing up over the stern with its eyes hanging half out of its head and a gaping gash in its throat. It fell back with a heavy splash, and the ripples went on for dozens of yards on either side. There are hundreds of them. It's not fair. It's not fair!
But there was no leisure for that. They rocked and splashed and wallowed, and more hands pounded at the boat from below. If they ripped out the bottom, they were done for. Yet one was falling back, and Davos slashed another, and Shaggydog tore apart a third, and they were still struggling forward, the wights hadn't stopped them entirely, the currach was stronger than it looked, and –
And Osha was gone.
One moment she was still balanced precariously in the bow, fighting off the dead wildlings for all she was worth, and then there was a stifled shout and a heavy splash. Rickon flung himself at the place where she'd been, and Shaggydog dragged him back once more, though this time Rickon was fighting tooth and nail. "Osha," he screamed, "Osha, Osha!"
She is dead, I can't save her, she's dead. Yet Davos found himself wondering – knowing – where he would be right now if Osha had taken that same approach with him. And before he had time to tell himself how suicidal it was more than once, he jumped overboard.
The water came up to hit him broadside. It was so cold that he almost went into shock, and his heavy clothes pulled him down. He opened his eyes, feeling the sting of saltwater, and saw Osha some ten or fifteen feet below him, trapped in the arms of the wight pulling her down. Her eyes were open as well, and a panicked, futile stream of bubbles issued from her mouth.
Davos reoriented himself and plunged. He kicked like a madman, green haze and white corpses all around. Wights loomed up grotesquely, leering. He dodged them, eyes still fixed on Osha, stretching out both hands. A man couldn't survive more than a quarter of an hour in water this cold, and he certainly couldn't hold his breath that long. But he would not let her go.
He kicked harder. Osha's struggles were getting weaker, her eyes rolling back in her head. But one more almighty stroke brought him into range, and then he had hold of her, ripping her away as black spots began to fizz and choke in his own vision, and then up and up and up and up.
Davos breasted the surface with a gagging, wheezing gasp, heart shuddering like mad and breaths high and whistling. For a moment he couldn't move, despite the exigency of the situation, and then he grabbed and shuddered and struggled over.
Osha was still alive when Davos dragged her onto the deck, but barely. Her skin was dead white, her eyes closed, her breath a slow, gurgling whistle. He rolled her over and clasped his fists in her stomach, expelling as much of the water from her as he could, but she flopped, limp as a rag doll. Shaggydog was now their sole defender from the wights, who – it might just have been Davos' desperate imagination – seemed to be falling back. Rickon was cowering under the hides in the stern. No matter how brave a five-year-old he was, this was an utter nightmare.
Davos laid Osha back down and pressed his mouth to hers, trying to blow a breath into her lungs. It was no good; the air just seeped uselessly out when he pulled away. He tried again, refusing to concede defeat, and again. They were definitely picking up speed. Overhead, the stars were starting to come out.
"She can't be dead," Rickon's small voice said. "She's not dead."
How little you know, summer child. Davos tried one breath, and then another, and then another, and compressed her heart, as he had seen his fellow sailors do on more than one occasion to jolt back to life those who appeared to have drowned. But it was still useless. Osha let out one watery gasp, and then another. Then her head lolled back, and she lay still, staring up at the sky with eyes as blank as the face of the rising moon.
She is gone. Davos sat back on his heels, stricken by grief for a woman he had only just met. But she saved my life, and I could not even save hers. Silently, he promised Osha's spirit that her sacrifice would not be forgotten, that Stannis would number her among the heroes when he came into his throne.
"Osha?" Rickon said again, hopefully. "Osha?"
"She is dead, lad." Davos' voice sounded thick and clumsy. He was shivering violently in his wet, icy clothes. Still more, they would have to throw her overboard, and immediately. She had been touched by a wight, she would rise beyond all doubt.
"No. No, she isn't, I won't let her!" Rickon got to his feet and attempted to rush to his guardian's body, but another wave caught them and he stumbled. Davos caught him, and Rickon struggled violently, beating his small fists, screaming at Osha to wake up, wake up. But she didn't, and she didn't. And he started to sob, a sound as sharp as the wind itself, and collapsed against Davos, kicking and beating his fists, furious at the world for what else it had dared to take from him.
Davos could do nothing but hold the boy tight. The night is dark and full of terrors, Melisandre whispered seductively. It is not too late, ser onions. Save yourself. You need not become one of them. You need not sacrifice the boy.
But you would have, Davos said back to her, silent, heartsick. You would have sacrificed Edric Storm if I had not sent him away.
There is power in a king's blood, she responded, as always. For a moment he could almost see her eyes, as unnaturally red as the wights' were blue. But then it was only the moon and the stars, and Rickon sobbing and Shaggydog howling, as the wind belled the sails, the dead men and Skagos faded behind them, and they sped into the heart of the falling night.