Davos I

298 AC, about the same time as Dany's wedding to Khal Drogo outside the walls of Pentos

"Take us to the other side, Ser Davos," the king ordered in short, clipped tones.

Davos Seaworth was no stranger to Stannis Baratheon's moods, and the tightness of his jaw told of nothing good. On the ride up from Storm's End, vain Lord Velaryon and the queen's Florent cousins passed the time talking excitedly of all that was to be gained from His Grace's victory, lands and castles and honors. Meanwhile, the king brooded on the insult of the Kingslayer leading a host to the castle he was born in and slaying men gathered in his name. When they arrived, the bodies of loyal Baratheon men could be found, lying where they fell, food for wolves and crows and worse. It took three days to give them an honorable burial. Once the Marcher Lords arrived, they headed up the Kingsroad, but too late.

Stannis and his lords dismounted, their horses led away by squires, including Davos' own son Devan. It made the old smuggler proud. The horses and steel would cross the Blackwater on another raft.

On the north bank of the Blackwater Rush was a desolation: mud and blood and bodies. Lord Horton Redfort and his Valemen trapped the Lion of Lannister against the river's edge and did a great slaughter, enough to make the black river run red, or so his son, Ser Jasper, reported to the king. The young knight was waiting to receive them with an honor guard. They had bloody, frayed surcoats and dented armor, but looked healthy withal.

It was an easy thing to push off and guide the barge through the current. Not a single one of the galleys seized by the pretender Joffrey remained to contest their crossing. Those had fled, along with the pretender. His Grace misliked that most of all.

Beyond the battleground, further up the river, were two armies encamped. The first were Arryn men, familiar to Davos from when they fled from the city in haste. They had conquered. The second army had fish banners. A Florent cousin named them "Tully". They kept their distance.

The royal party found King's Landing quiet and subdued, with anxious folk peering at the king from behind shutters and slightly open doors. No cheering crowds greeted His Grace, no crowds at all. Robert had been loved, but Stannis never. There was order, aye, but no cheer in the cobbled streets.

"They must've won some rich ransoms in the battle," Lord Velaryon said lightly, as if this were but a summer outing.

"There were two battles," Celtigar reminded him. "The one against the Kingslayer was even more one-sided, they say. Good riddance to that one. Though it is a pity the rogue wasn't captured alive. Imagine what old Tywin would pay for his boy."

"Casterly Rock is not the only fastness in the western mountains rich with gold," Velaryon continued, heedless. "The Leffords, for one, have many a mine. They call their castle the Golden Tooth. Do you suppose they captured any Leffords?"

The king ignored their banter as they continued up Aegon's High Hill and to the Red Keep. A Royce of Runestone had the gate and let them through. They passed under thick red walls with murder holes above, through the bailey, and into the keep within the Keep. Soft music could be heard from the great hall as they approached.

Within, the lords of the Vale had a small feast going, dining and drinking on trestle tables and benches lined up on one side. The hall was a huge, cavernous structure, with the empty Iron Throne looming over all. Once the king and his men passed inside, the music grew a deal louder. That is, until somebody noticed King Stannis.

"All rise for King Stannis, first of his name!" cried out a drunken man. Knights and lords and ladies staggered to their feet, and the music stopped at once.

His Grace's eyes narrowed, and his jaw grew a deal tighter. There was not a sound in the hall save for Stannis' riding boots scuffing on the stone floor as he walked around the feasting men and climbed the steps to the Iron Throne. When he sat down, there was a cheer at last.

The king could not hide his surprise. Those bright blue eyes widened, and perhaps his jaw loosened a bit.

"Join us, Sire!" cajoled a drunken knight, raising a goblet of wine in the king's honor. "Let us drink your health!"

"I would have your oaths of fealty first, my lords," was the king's reply. So they swore. One by one, every man knelt before the Iron Throne, said his vow, and rose. Redfort, Royce, and Belmore came, and a Bolton of the North. That was the red knight, the one they named the demon, who sacrificed to cruel gods of wood and stream. He seemed a courtly fellow in that pink doublet of his, with a harp in hand. Davos had heard him sing once or twice. Not even the fireplums of Oldtown were sweeter than Bolton's voice.

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The Riverlords came next. Ser Brynden Tully, called the Blackfish, bent the knee with Blackwood and Brackon, Piper and Vance. A strapping lad who looked a bit like the king's brother Renly stood for the Freys.

His Grace sighed audibly when it was done, and braced himself. "I suppose you'll be wanting rewards for your good service."

Then, the deluge.

Men came forward, boasting of their deeds, requesting this and that. They wanted mills, remission of their taxes, wardships of noble orphans, lands and castles and honors. It went on and on forever. When the courtly lad in pink came forth, Stannis paid him more mind than the others.

"You saved my life and did more to win my crown than any of these. If there is a boon you would have, if it is in my power, you may consider it granted, Ser."

Bolton didn't need to think very long. "I should like to plant a weirwood in the Red Keep's godswood, and in every godswood in the realm, in time."

Men looked at one another as if they could not believe their ears. Him? Just that? They said he slew half a hundred knights. "That's it?" the king asked when the murmuring tapered off.

"Oh, and I've got some prisoners I'd like to sacrifice to the gods. I have a few dozen with me here, but nearly one thousand remain alive in Harrenhal's dungeons."

There was an uproar in the hall. Brynden Blackfish came forward and knelt before the king. "Your Grace, you mustn't! It is a savage thing the Scalp-Taker asks. Doing this deed will tarnish your reign before it has yet begun."

Bolton looked taken aback. "They aren't highborn prisoners. Those will be ransomed. Or even levies. These are foreign sellswords in chief, who took Lannister coin to come across the sea and kill us. Why shouldn't their blood feed the gods?"

"The gods do not require blood!" Blackfish retorted heatedly.

"Maybe your false gods don't," replied the red knight. He turned to the king. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm doing the world a favor. These are the scum of the Free Cities. If I let them go, they'll turn to banditry. Better to put them to some useful purpose. My uncle's daughter has done some research on watering weirwoods with blood. I should be more than happy to show you, or your maester."

"They yielded to you!" Blackfish objected.

"Only to save their hides. They came here for gold, to rape and murder and put a bastard on the throne. Their lives are mine to do with as I wish."

The face of the old knight darkened. "You are a monster, Domeric Bolton."

Bolton rolled his eyes. "Says the craven who sat out the battle. If you wanted a say in what to do with the spoils, you ought to have had a hand in the victory. The Lannister survivors said you shadowed them for a hundred leagues, never offering battle. Were you afraid?"

"I will not have my courage questioned by a heathen and a murderer," the Blackfish spat. He stormed from the hall before any man could stop him.

"Thanks for nothing, Brandon!" Bolton yelled at his retreating form. "So, about those sacrifices?"

Davos hoped the king would refuse, but from the lines around his eyes, the onion knight knew he was considered it. "They are all foreigners?"

"Foreigners, and a few exiles. Sometimes, men of the Seven Kingdoms fleeing justice sign up with the Free Companies. They're just as bad as the rest, if you ask me. Imagine, fighting for coin."

King Stannis grunted, almost a chuckle. "Yes, imagine." He leaned forward, glowering down from the throne. "You may do as you wish. I've never troubled myself over the gods in any case."

"Wonderful!" said Bolton brightly. "Well then, now that official business is done, why not join our feast, Your Grace? It's a hasty thing, but we've got fish, roast ox, bread, butter, and so forth. They're baking some sweetbread for dessert." He walked back to the feasting tables, harp in hand. Then he froze and looked back. "Oh, and I'd like leave to go home. With the war done, I've got business in the North."

"Granted," the king agreed. He even agreed to dine with the lords, for a time, though His Grace refused their wine.