GOT: The Great — Chapter 285 - Davos Seaworth

The sea wind off White Harbor carried salt and fish as it funneled down the alley, setting the dried catches hanging under the eaves swaying.

Davos Seaworth sat in the corner of the Fish Tail Inn, a cup of long-cold ale on the table before him. His fingers worked absently at the worn leather pouch at his neck — the one that had once held his last three finger bones, lost in the Blackwater Rush. The bones were gone. The habit remained.

"What should I do?" he murmured. Tears welled up and blurred his sight. "Gods be good, what should I do?"

Princess Shireen had been burned alive. Burned alive by Stannis Baratheon and his red priestess Melisandre. Davos coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, then coughed again.

Across the table sat a soldier.

The man wore an ill-fitting wool coat. His eyes sat deep in their sockets, and there was a frostbite wound on his cheekbone that hadn't fully healed, red-purple, the edges already going black.

He had deserted from Stannis's army before the final battle at Winterfell.

He'd made his way to White Harbor by a roundabout route, hoping to find a ship south, and Davos had recognized him.

He had told Davos everything that happened outside Winterfell that day, holding nothing back.

"The blizzard raged for three days and three nights. The snow piled higher than a man's head. Tents collapsed under the weight. We were so frozen we couldn't grip our swords."

"After that witch burned Princess Shireen, the blizzard did stop."

"The witch said: See, the Lord's light has driven back the darkness."

"Stannis thought driving back the blizzard meant he could win. But we're men of flesh and blood — who would willingly follow a tyrant to the end?"

"Half the men fled that very night when the snow stopped. I was one of them."

Davos drew his dagger. "I'm going to cut out Melisandre's heart with this. If she has one."

"Hand Davos, I've told you everything I know. You promised to arrange passage on a ship for me..."

Stannis is dead. What kind of Hand am I anymore. "I'll arrange a cabin for you."

The soldier bowed. "Thank you, Hand." He turned and walked away.

Davos slid the dagger back into its sheath and scrubbed the tears from his face with his knuckles.

He thought of the morning Stannis had cut off his fingers. Just Stannis.

Justice! He had once believed in that word without question.

He pushed his chair back, walked out of the inn, and made his way toward Wyman Manderly's residence.

The Lord of White Harbor's study sat high in the castle, its windows facing the harbor. Through them the grey-green waters of the White Knife flowed slowly into the harbor basin.

Wyman Manderly occupied an oak chair wide enough to seat four men, a table before him spread with maps, ledgers, and an empty pastry dish.

He was fatter than the last time Davos had seen him. A new layer of flesh had settled beneath his chin. The rings on his fingers had sunk into the skin and looked as though they could never come off again.

"Stannis has failed." Davos stood in the doorway. "I've come to say farewell."

"The new Dragon King supports House Bolton. It seems our secret preparations were for nothing."

As he said it, his gaze moved to the harbor outside the window.

Dozens of newly built warships rode at anchor. Their decks could hold fifty archers each; their prows were fitted with iron-capped rams.

Just building those ships had taken months. That said nothing of the army being secretly drilled outside the city, soldiers on White Harbor's payroll, tucked away in fishing villages, spending their days pretending to dry nets.

Wyman Manderly picked up a letter from the table and held it out. "That is not so."

Davos stepped forward and took it. He unfolded it.

"Rickon Stark." He set the letter down. His voice carried unmistakable disbelief. "Still alive. And Catelyn Stark as well?"

Wyman Manderly nodded. His chin swayed with the motion, the flesh at his neck folding into three layers.

"My liege lord is calling for me. My preparations have not been wasted. White Harbor will fight for House Stark."

"But we still cannot contend with three dragons," Davos said.

Wyman Manderly smiled. He slid another sheet of paper across the table, an intelligence report, the handwriting hurried and loose.

"No. The Dragon King has married Sansa Stark. He rode his dragon and destroyed Bolton's army outside Castle Black, and is now marching south with a wildling host."

"Scouts report he has already taken Kaho. Based on his line of advance, the Dreadfort is next."

"The Dreadfort will make a desperate stand." Wyman Manderly tapped the spot on the map with one finger. "So he is staying in Kaho to resupply and reequip."

"And I happen to need a naval commander to sail these warships up the Weeping Water and attack the Dreadfort from the south."

Davos studied the map.

The Weeping Water ran along the Dreadfort's southern flank, a thin grey-blue line winding across the parchment, emptying into the sea south of the castle.

A fleet sailing upriver could seal off the Dreadfort's waterway from the south entirely.

He looked at it for a long moment, then lifted his eyes from the map.

"Stannis is dead. This game of thrones is no longer my concern. I'm going to find Melisandre."

Wyman Manderly watched him. No surprise on his face. He simply leaned back in his chair, which let out a heavy groan beneath him.

"You are not yet out of this game. I need you as my naval commander."

"I lost Stannis's fleet in the Blackwater Rush. What those ships looked like burning in the wildfire — I can still see it every time I close my eyes."

"What right does a man like me have to call himself a naval commander again?"

Davos turned and took a step toward the door.

"I have only one thing left."

"Do you know where Melisandre is?" Wyman Manderly's voice caught him from behind.

"She is in King's Landing," the Lord of White Harbor continued. "In the Red Keep. She is the new king's priestess. How do you intend to get close to her?"

Davos turned back and stared at him.

King's Landing. The Red Keep.

The red witch wasn't hiding in some cave in the middle of nowhere. She was seated right beside the Iron Throne, with guards at her back and walls between her and the world.

He couldn't swim there. Couldn't slip in as a smuggler. Couldn't bluff his way past the gates. Might not even make it close to the city walls.

He began to tremble.

What a woman, that Melisandre. "That red witch. She plays her hand well."

"Your only chance," Wyman Manderly said, "is to take my fleet and go aid King Drogo. Win his trust. Only then will you have any opportunity to get near Melisandre."

Davos thought of Shireen.

He thought of Princess Shireen sitting in the study at Dragonstone, teaching him to read, the words coming out of his mouth one by one, always misspelling knight.

My king burned his own daughter alive. My king died in the snows of the North. My king lost himself to a cult.

Davos Seaworth asked: "When do we depart?"

Wyman Manderly said: "Now."

➤ Next: The Wall-Facer