The Butcher of Godsgrace

“The world is in your hands or it’s at your throat.”

[davos-allyrion]

𓌜 EXTENDED CHARACTER INTRODUCTION 𓌜

(This character is a part of the RP AU @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

Basics

Full Name: Davos Ryon Allyrion

Nickname: Dav (used exclusively by his family)

Monikers: The Butcher of Godsgrace, Lord Vulture

Age: 20

Date of Birth: The fifteenth day of the first month of 110 AC (January 15th)

Pronouns & Identity: He/him; equally fond of all genders

Allegiances: House Allyrion and the domain of Godsgrace above all else

Spoken Languages: The Common Tongue, High Valyrian, and the Lyseni dialect

Religion: A devout follower of Mother Rhoyne

Physical Traits

Eyes: Almond-shaped and pale blue; highly sensitive to sunlight, often lined in kohl for both protection and aesthetic

Facial Features: Fair skin dotted with freckles and beauty marks; an oval face with a sharply defined chin. His lips are full with a pronounced cupid’s bow, the lower lip naturally pouty. Thick brows and dense lashes give his gaze a brooding intensity

Hair: Dark brown with caramel hues under certain light; once nearly blonde in childhood. Kept shaggy and uneven from self-cutting, his hair tends to wave as it grows out

Build: Lean and long-limbed with a wiry frame. Though toned, he lacks bulk, built more like a whip than a wall

Height: 6'2" (1.87m)

Distinguishing Characteristics: Years of working with corrosive compounds have left his hands coarse and scarred. To conceal their roughness, and reclaim their appearance, Davos stains them with intricate henna patterns, disguising damage as design

Style & Adornment: Davos favors garments of flowing fabric—skirts, dresses, and draped tunics—that prioritize comfort and mobility, often in styles considered feminine outside of Dorne. He wears an abundance of jewelry: layered necklaces, dangling earrings, ankle cuffs, and bracelets that whisper when he moves. However, he avoids rings, as they cause his fingers to itch and swell after prolonged wear

Personality Traits

“Positive” Traits: Strategic, intelligent, fiercely protective, merciful to the loyal, highly disciplined, and self-sufficient

“Negative” Traits: Volatile temper, deeply paranoid, quick to violence, controlling in close relationships, and isolationist by nature

Moral Alignment: Lawful Evil

Interests: Alchemy and apothecary arts, psychology and human behavior, ancient history and forbidden lore, cryptography and linguistic codes

Hobbies: Cooking and henna painting (both serve as outlets for stress)

Goals: Transform Godsgrace into an impenetrable sanctuary: a haven for the loyal, a grave for the treacherous. His need to protect his family runs deep, whether born of guilt, trauma, or twisted reverence, his devotion is unquestionable

Core Anxiety: The Loss of Control—be it over himself, others, or his environment. To Davos, chaos is synonymous with death. His world must be orderly, loyal, and fearful. The prospect of betrayal, manipulation, or internal collapse is his deepest terror

Social Weapons: Secrets, surveillance, and subterfuge. He rarely threatens, as his reputation speaks for him. Stories of his rituals, punishments, and eerie practices circulate freely, encouraged rather than denied. He cultivates myth like others cultivate crops, knowing fear is the most efficient enforcer

Connections

Father: Lord Ferris Allyrion (deceased)

Mother: Dalla of Lys (deceased)

Uncle: Ryon Allyrion

Siblings: Mors, Nymeria (married to Anders Martell), Larra, and Kiera Allyrion (Kiera is technically a cousin but raised as a sister)

Family Status: Current head of House Allyrion; the second-born son of the late Lord Ferris

Partner: married to @alesanderpenrose

Court Ties: Lord of Godsgrace; widely regarded as “the most skilled healer in the realm,” according to Lady Mahira Dayne

[whyenn-reader]

im doing good! you know. besides the underlying feeling that I'm fundamentally incapable of fitting in in a society. besides that i'm chillin

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

Davos was going to be the death of him, surely. But he would be happy about it.

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

[alesanderpenrose]

The square had been busy and bustling at this hour with people trading and buying things. Though it was terribly chaotic, Alesander loved it. He loved exploring this place, he loved meeting new people and peering at items that caught his eye. Items he could bring back for his family members, or Davos, if he was feeling brave enough.

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

Finally, three, Ales needed to pick out an outfit. And fast.

[davos-allyrion]

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

“It’s fine…” Davos lied. “You’re drunk… just drunk.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Waiting for the night to finally arrive had made Alesander restless.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

His story was a tragedy at every turn, it seemed. Never a fairytale.

[davos-allyrion]

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

To make it easier for Davos to stop loving him.

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was avoiding him.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.

Horrors is what he found in the West Wing.

His walk slowed as he took in everything, heart racing with every new thing his eyes landed on.

Blood. So much blood. Metal glinted from the fire he’d lit on the wall from his torch. It was dark in here, eerily dark. He observed metal stained with red. Sharp things caught his gaze, sharp things with more blood.

There was writing he couldn’t comprehend, his vision blurred with fear or disbelief or both.

Ales now stood in front of a pit of… something. He couldn’t even remember when his feet took him to it, just that he saw it now, and he was afraid.

So this is why I was told never to come here. He thought, barely processing it. Davos was hiding this. Hiding something terrible.

A million questions flooded his mind, none of them making sense to him. Who knew about this? What was this? Why was this here? What does Davos do here?

Davos. His Davos. The man who’d let him stay here and do what he loved. The man who’d looked at Ales without the judgment he’d come to know. The man who Ales held so gently in his arms, soothing the sickness that had hurt him.

The man who had Ales’ heart in his hands.

This was his secret.

The butcher, Ales’ mind whispered, suddenly and without warning. He had known all the rumors about Davos, and he’d ignored every single one. He’d been taught from a young age to ignore rumors, mostly from the Prince Joffrey, but it was a lesson that stuck with him.

He wasn’t above gossip, but he was above believing it. But now…

He didn’t want to believe it. To believe the worst of Davos. But his heart felt as if it was in his throat, and everything here had sent his hands into a violent shake.

What had he discovered?

Then, a voice spoke Ales’ name. Without wanting to, he stepped back, afraid. It was Davos himself.

He caught me. Or, maybe, I caught him.

Then, he spoke again. Davos said “no,” over and over again. He said it as Ales stared, unwavering eyes.

Was that confirmation? Confirmation that none of this was right, that it was a secret Ales was never supposed to learn?

Ales couldn’t even hear the rest of his words, the blood was rushing too loudly in his ears, and his eyes were too fixated on Davos himself. He tried to examine Davos, to look for any sign that none of this was real. But it was real.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

No explanation. No comfort. Nothing, except for that Ales knew that what he’d seen here was not for his eyes, and Davos wasn’t happy. Ales was frozen, waiting to wake up from this terrible dream, or for Davos to tell him something to make this all go away. But he didn’t.

Say something. Say something. Say something!

His mind scolded him, but his body did not comply. His body trembled and ached and pained, but did not speak.

The last thing he processed was Davos, yelling at him. Yelling at him to leave.

Alesander flinched hard, coming back to reality. Davos had never raised his voice at him, never once. He’d always spoken to him with a kind of gentleness that made him want to cry. Now, he did want to cry, but not out of tenderness.

His feet seemed to carry him to the door without his mind knowing.

He hid this from me. He hates me. He’s doing something terrible here. None of this is right. I need to leave, as he ordered me to.

No one had payed Alesander any mind as he left.

It was a common occurrence for him to leave the castle for town, and it wasn’t like anyone knew of what had just happened. It wasn’t as if they could see that his heart was torn from his chest, stomped on, and ruined now.

He hadn’t had the time for tears yet.

In a haste, he’d rushed to his room, grabbed his bag that he always brought to town, and left. He hadn’t taken anything else, as he didn’t think to.

A part of him wanted to leave his belongings. For Davos to see them, and to remember him. Another part of him was so confused and afraid, that packing his clothes wasn’t a priority.

Ales left and made his way to the docks. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Larra, Nymeria, Kiera, Ryon, and all the people he’d cared for.

He felt the tiniest bit of relief when he saw the captain. Arron, he recognized. A man he’d known well, one he talked to often on his visits to town. Ales had helped his son, Maron, with his reading.

Arron was the captain of the ship, which was leaving for Westeros on the morrow.

Ales approached him, meekly, trying to hide the sorrow on his face.

Arron spoke first. “Going home so soon, Penrose? My boy will miss you.” His tone didn’t make it seem friendly, but that was just how the man spoke. Ales had come to know many of the people here, in Godsgrace. Observing them, connecting with them. He had thought once that he might stay here forever. No longer was that true, he knew.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He searched in his small bag for the coin he always kept there.

The captain rolled his eyes. He looked so much like his son when he did that, Alesander thought. He would miss them. “Nonsense. But I’ll take you home.”

Alesander’s heart dropped when he realized there was no coin. He’d spent it all, all the coin he’d brought to Dorne. The rest of it was left in his room, and there was no going back now.

He could have cried right there and then. “Fuck. I- I’m sorry- I don’t-“

Arron realized instantly what was happening. He interrupted Ales, “don’t worry about it, Ser. You’ve done enough for my family. Consider us even now.”

The monotone voice was comforting, but not enough to soothe the shaking that hadn’t left Alesander since this morning. The unstoppable hurt from what had happened.

Absentmindedly, he thanked Arron, and boarded the ferry.

Other people walked about the deck, paying no mind to Alesander Penrose and his grief.

He found a secluded edge, where less people wandered, and sunk to the floorboards. He hugged his journal for dear life, finding little comfort in that.

Davos had gotten him that journal.

Feeling the wood and inhaling the salty air, it all became real suddenly. Having this time now, to think, he did. Everything came back to him.

The discovery of the West Wing. Their fight. All that he’d seen. Frantically, he revisited everything he remembered he saw.

Diagrams, so many diagrams. Ones stained with blood, ones with little notes in the margins, ones that Ales couldn’t make out. What did it all mean?

There was the vat, as well. The horrifying, vat of liquid that steamed with the scent of something Alesander couldn’t name. Something evil? Or something that he’d misjudged?

Weapons, everywhere. Ones with the rusted color that Ales assumed was, once again, blood. Saws, small knives, and…

No, he thought, suddenly. No, not weapons. Tools. Surgical tools.

He knew Davos was a healer. He’d known it all along, heard the stories of how Davos was a talented healer. Gods, he’d even came to Kings Landing to deliver The Queen’s babies.

No, perhaps it hadn’t been what Alesander thought it was. The blood, the tools, the notes. It was research. It was healing. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible, misjudgment.

The realization hit him hard as if he had been struck in the face.

He made Davos feel ashamed. He’d made Davos think that he was afraid of him. He’d hurt Davos, just as everyone who spoke terrible things about him tried to hurt him.

That was why he yelled at him. Why he didn’t explain.

His own words came back to him. “I’ll care for you. Always.”

Ales had broken that promise to Davos. He’d been so afraid, he’d went against his words. It was all ruined now, all Alesander’s fault for being a terrified fool.

Alesander swallowed hard, trying to keep the rush of tears down, but to no avail. Defeated, and exhausted, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his head in his arms.

He cried.

[davos-allyrion]

The echo of his voice still clung to the air when the door slammed shut. The silence afterward was unbearable. The West Wing was a tomb, stone swallowing sound whole, as if it had long waited to drink down the last of him. Torches guttered low, shadows stretched long across the flags, and Davos stood amidst them, chest heaving, throat raw from the shout.

Five moons. Five moons of a fairytale he had no right to live. Five moons of pretending he could be something other than butcher, heretic, shadow of a man. Five moons of tricking himself into believing he might be worthy of Alesander’s laughter in the morning, his steady hand at night.

Now the illusion was over, shattered in a single look.

And gods, he could still see it: the terror in Alesander’s eyes.

Not anger. Not confusion. Fear.

Fear, as if he were nothing but the monster whispered about in drunken tales. Fear, the same look common folk bore when he came for their kin with priest’s smile and butcher’s blade. Fear that said plain: I see you now. I know what you are.

His mind coiled in on itself, tearing him open from within. Was this not always inevitable? That sooner or later, Alesander’s gaze would pierce the veil and glimpse the rot beneath? Love was only borrowed time, only grace he had never earned. What was he thinking, what madness had told him he could cradle light without blackening it?

He remembered, with sudden, jarring clarity, the quiet, almost imperceptible moment he had stolen from himself. Alesander bent over a notebook, sunlight catching the ink, each stroke deliberate, each word a secret whispered to a world Davos had not yet been allowed to enter. The way his curls fell across his forehead, the subtle purse of his lips in concentration… it lodged itself in Davos’ chest, stubborn as a splinter.

Davos had lingered under the pretense of attending to papers, fingers busy, eyes pretending not to see. But he could not look away. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache that had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with curiosity. Something sharper, more consuming, had taken root.

The thought had come, a quiet, dangerous tremor in the mind: I am in love with him.

He had tried to bury it, to turn his mind back to the rhythm that kept the thoughts at bay. But every movement of Alesander’s pen, every upward glance in thought, shifted the world beneath Davos’ feet, and he could not find solid ground again.

He moved without thought. The pestle still lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling. Work was what he had left. Order. The bite of steel, the rhythm of scrubbing, the mindless ritual that kept the rot at bay. The bath still steamed faintly, the stink cloying in his nostrils. If he didn’t scour the saws, the blood would rust them. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would eat through the stone. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend Alesander hadn’t looked at him as if the man he knew was already a corpse.

But his hands betrayed him. They shook too much, fumbling rag and cloth. When he tried to scrape dried gore from a scalpel, it slipped, slicing the heel of his palm. A clean, deep cut. Blood welled dark and hot. Davos stared at it, then laughed.

The sound was hideous. Mad. A jagged bark torn from his chest. Of course. What else could he expect? Devils belong in hell. What was he doing, trying to cage an angel?

His thoughts circled like carrion crows, each darker than the last. Alesander had touched his hair like it was worth touching. Whispered to him like he deserved gentleness. And Davos had repaid him with bone saws and chains. What was love from a monster but another form of cruelty?

The laughter bent him double until it broke into sobs, raw and wrenching. He pressed his bleeding hand to his face, smearing red across his skin. Pathetic. A grown man, a lord, in his nightclothes, crying like a child among the ruins of his own making.

A voice in his head mocked him as he scrubbed the floors: ‘you clean the blood as if the filth is in the stones, not in your veins.’ He wrapped his wound in linen, clumsy and crooked. He looked at his hands and thought: they would never be clean. Not even if he boiled them down to the bone.

By the time the floors were scrubbed and the doors locked, his body ached. His face was swollen, eyes raw, hand clumsily bound in linen. He wandered until Larra found him. Her gaze darted from the bandage to his ravaged face. She raced forward, hands quick, reaching to tend.

“Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head. His voice cracked, too thin. “It’s ruined. I ruined everything.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I scared him.” The words fell heavy, bitter.

“Scared who?”

He wanted to lie, but the truth forced itself out, ragged and broken. “Ales.”

Her brows knitted, confusion soft as her voice. “Why?”

His throat burned. “Because I love him.”

The words left him flayed. Saying it aloud made it real, unbearable. He pressed a hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. He wished he could swallow the admission whole. He wished he could die and wake as something else.

A flower, perhaps. Something simple. Something Alesander could pluck, keep in a vase by the window. Something worthy of his touch.

Larra’s hand brushed his arm. “Then tell him,” she urged. “Tell him you love him.”

“It’s useless,” Davos whispered. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Did he say that?”

He clawed at his hair, pain sharp as he tugged. How could he tell Alesander he had earned the devotion of a killer? That he wanted to beg him not to go where he could not follow? Drag me through hell, but stay where I can see.

“Last night,” Larra murmured, “when the migraine had you near mad, he was there. He never left your side. He soothed you. If you can’t trust your own heart, then trust his.”

The words struck like a hammer. He froze. His mind spun. The cool cloth, the voice low and steady, the fingers combing his hair.

Not a dream. Not a poppy-sick illusion.

Before he could think, he was running. Faster, faster, tearing through the halls toward Alesander’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Inside too little was disturbed. Clothes folded. Coin pouch untouched. Panic slammed into him.

Gods. Alesander was out there. Alone. And it was his fault.

Davos didn’t care that he was half-dressed, bleeding through his bandage. He tore through Godsgrace, demanding answers, until they pointed him to the docks. To the ferry.

Arron, the ferry captain, shifted uneasily. “The lad seemed heartbroken, milord.”

Davos shoved a gold bracelet into his hand, voice cracking. “Give me your quarters. Just—just give me a chance.”

It took too long to find him. Faces blurred past. Bows, whispers, startled stares at their lord running half-mad across the deck. And then, Alesander.

Hunched on the far side, shoulders bowed, face streaked with tears. The sight broke him entirely.

“Ales—” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, seizing him by the elbow. “Don’t run. Please—don’t.” His words tumbled desperate, uneven. “Come with me, just come, I can’t—” He dragged him into the captain’s quarters, hands shaking.

The quarters were dark without the oil to burn, moonlight making its way through a small window. Arron was a good man, grateful enough not to ask questions, well paid enough to keep people from interrupting them.

The door shut. Davos reached for Alesander’s face, brushing away tears with his sleeve. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice fraying. “All this because of me. I never meant it—I never wanted you to see—” His breath hitched. “I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry.”

When words failed, he fell to his knees. Head bowed, chest heaving, clutching at Alesander’s legs

With the cold gnawing at his bare legs, Davos felt like a lamb offering its throat to the blade. Whether Alesander chose to be the shepherd or the executioner, Davos’ neck was already bared, exposed, and waiting.

“I love you…” The words slipped out, raw and unbidden, and Davos wished he could claw them back, bury them in the recesses of a dream. “I don’t know how to love, not properly, but I feel it here, in my bones. I’m rotten, Alesander. You’ve called me great, brilliant, even beautiful… but no one else sees me that way. To them, I’m a vulture. A scavenger.”

Davos’ head dropped to Alesander’s belt, and he wished the pressure of it would leave a mark, a scar to remember this moment by. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense Alesander’s hand rising, slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for a feral creature poised to bolt or bite. Davos was certain he would know Alesander’s presence even blind and deaf. He thought he would recognize the space between them, the quiet tension in the air, the way Alesander reached for him before their skin ever touched. And when they did—when Alesander’s fingers finally curled around his shoulders, gently prying them apart—Davos knew he would carry the memory of that touch into his dreams.

He already did.

Now, as Davos looked up, regret pooled heavy in his gut. Alesander was beautiful like this, his face illuminated in the dim light, blonde hair catching the glow, freckles scattered like constellations, his eyes glimmering with something unspoken. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he were choking on the weight of his response, the inevitability of rejection.

Davos wondered, briefly, if Alesander feared him. He would sooner sever his own hand than harm Alesander, but Alesander was too clever to mistake a lynx for a housecat. The thought made Davos’ grip on Alesander’s hips slacken. He would let go. He would let Alesander leave, if that was what he wanted.

“I’ve killed more people than I can name,” Davos confessed, his voice low and trembling. “I don’t feel enough guilt to purify me. I’d kill again. I’m selfish, Alesander. Greedy. I want you all to myself. I’m jealous—jealous of everything and everyone that’s ever kept you from me. Jealous of the men who’ve had you, jealous of the men you’ve had. Jealous that they’re not me. Jealous that they’ve traced your freckles in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I’m… pathetic. Rambling. Love has made me a coward.”

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart poured faster, uncontainable. He’ll leave. He’ll despise you. He’ll see the madness, the ruin, and he’ll turn away. Yet the words came anyway, bloody and bare, dragging his soul into the open.

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his throat, and he dropped his hands to clutch at his knees. His skin felt cold, but his body burned, feverish and raw. What a selfish, wretched little thing his heart was, demanding Alesander join him in this hell.

“I love you,” he repeated, the words spilling out like a plea. “I’ll love you if you stay in Godsgrace for the rest of your days. I’ll love you if you walk away right now. I’ll love you if you marry someone else, if you build a life far from me. I’ll love you if you decide that sharing my loneliness is enough.”

On his knees, dressed in threadbare pajamas and stripped of dignity, Davos prayed harder than he ever had to the Seven.

For once, it wasn’t atonement he sought.

Only Alesander.

[alesanderpenrose]

Dark had come, and Alesander was still crying.

How many hours had passed, and he had just sat here? He couldn’t be sure. Maybe it wasn’t even hours, only mere minutes, and he was going mad.

People had tried to talk to him, but he’d barely noticed. After many failed attempts of conversation and asking if he was alright, every passenger decided he wasn’t worth the extra breath.

Good, he didn’t want to speak now. He wanted to waste away here, sink into the floorboards, never be seen again.

The memory of everything that happened before replayed in his mind, over and over again.

Davos, his heart and mind both ached for him, Davos. I’m sorry.

In the midst of all of his heartbreak, suddenly, he heard his name being called. Not just someone asking if he was alright, no, it was a familiar voice. It was-

He looked up, and somehow, he was there- Davos.

Was Ales seeing things? Had the sorrow and longing made him believe Davos was somehow here with him?

Clearly not, Ales decided, by the looks of the other passengers faces, and by the way Davos had grabbed his arm. Real, this was real. He came for me?

He barely had time to process anything before Davos was pulling him into the captains quarters. Davos was still in the same clothes he had been in when everything had happened. He looked frazzled, as if he had been crying, as if seeing Alesander was the only thing in the world that mattered. He had blood on him, where had that come from? Alesander’s heart hurt with more misery and guilt and things he never knew he could feel.

He came for me. In his nightclothes, in his sorrow, in his bloody bandages, he came for me.

Who had ever come for Alesander before like this?

They entered the small room, now secluded from everyone else, and Alesander felt the anxiousness rise in him again. He couldn’t tell what was happening, what was going to happen, and only wanted to apologize to Davos now, to hold him and ask him what had happened. Ales’ lips frowned in sorrow, his eyes still leaked tears he could not stop.

But, Davos wiped the tears that remained on his face, and Alesander let him. The touch was everything. He wanted to say something to Davos, anything, but Davos continued to speak. He spoke frantically, apologizing, and then…

He was on the ground, holding Ales’ waist.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

“I love you…”

He loves me.

Alesander swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was horribly painful, and more tears lingered in his eyes.

No more tears, he demanded to himself. He needed to be strong for Davos, who he was currently staring at, as he could not pull his gaze away from him. He loves me.

At some point, Ales had grabbed Davos’ shoulders, trying to steady him, needing to feel him.

Davos, who was on his knees, looked like he was saying some sorrowful prayer. He looked as if he had sinned and was confessing to Alesander who was his saint… But he was not. He confessed, but confessed his love. Love for Ales. Ales felt the grip of Davos’ hands at his hips slacken, then leave entirely. It was all so much to take in.

Ales listened. Listened, and felt his heart beat with every new thing Davos said. He memorized every word in his soul, felt every confession in his bones, and continued to listen.

He loves me as I love him.

Then, silence. Davos, on the ground, and Alesander watching him.

Alesander shook his head, realizing he had not yet said a word to what he’d just heard. Davos confessed, and confessed, and confessed, and all Alesander did was watch him with tearful eyes. It was time to confess back, to be honest for once in his life.

Slowly, he kneeled to face Davos.

Their knees touched, eyes locked on each other, and time felt as if it had stopped just for them.

Ales’ eyes shifted, lingering for a moment on Davos’ hand, bandaged and bloodied. It reminded Alesander of weeks ago, when the man in front of him had one of his hands in bloody bandages, the same as now.

Alesander had held his hand then, worried for him, then dropped the hand. He would never do that again.

He took Davos’ hand, carefully as to not touch the wound, and brought it to the left side of his chest, his heart. He placed the long fingers there there, delicately, and gently placed his own hand over Davos’. Would it leave blood on his shirt? He did not know. He did not care. If it did, he’d wear the stain proudly.

“My heart is yours, Davos.” His words came out raspy from the crying and the exhaustion, but the tenderness could not be misheard.

Then, with his free hand, he reached out, taking the other hand of his beloved that did not grace his heart. Then, quietly, but clearly, he spoke, “I love you.”

As gently as he could, and began to rub his thumbs against the rough skin of his beloved. Trying to calm the nerves he could see pouring from Davos. As if he wasn’t trembling himself.

He laughed, softly and quietly, but he laughed. “I’ve been miserable, truly. I’m always miserable, but i’ve been even worse loving you and not telling you. I’m glad you had the courage I did not.”

Davos looked so fragile, so soft in the moonlight. The darkness of the night reminded Ales suddenly of the dark room he’d found, of why the two were here now. Of the secrets between them.

“I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did. I was shocked to find what I did, surely. But, no, none of it changed the way I feel for you. You’re not rotten. You’re none of the horrible things you call yourself. I see who you really are.”

Alesander shifted slightly, feeling the wooden floorboards beneath his legs. He barely cared where they were, that they were on the floor of a ferry destined to leave in some hours, just knew that Davos was in front of him now, and that was all that mattered.

“You…” He paused, smiling, continuing to rub at the knuckles of the man he loved in front of him. A gentle smile and gentle touches. “I’ve never had someone treat me in the way you do. As if I’m interesting and someone worth caring for, as if I am good for anything. And I have seen the way you treat others, you pretend you’re not kind, but I see through you. I see the person I want the most in the world.”

A short pause, then, one to give Davos a look. A kind, soft look. One that he hoped said “I love you, I care for you, I see you,” just as much as his words did.

“But, I need you to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. No more secrets between us, no more hiding ourselves away.” For most of Ales’ life, he’d tried desperately to hide the parts of him he hated. Hide the things he did, the places he went, the vulnerable parts of him. But no longer would he with Davos. They were in this together now, the two of them.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he lunged forward and hugged Davos. He sucked in a breath, shaky and emotional. “I love you, Lord Davos Allyrion. I love you, and I don’t want to leave Godsgrace, I want to stay with you. I want to go wherever you go, because I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”

He pulled back, slowly and gently, and looked into Davos’ eyes. His arms wrapped around Davos’ shoulders, not wanting to stop touching him.

“I’m not going back to Westeros, because I’m going home, with you.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos’ breath caught at the words, at the way Alesander’s voice trembled and steadied all at once. He hadn’t known how desperately he’d needed to hear them until now. His chest ached, ribs too tight to hold the sudden swell of his heart. For so long, his longing had been a secret wound, hidden beneath silence. And now Alesander pressed his hand to his heart as if to say: Here. It has been yours all along.

His arms wrapped around Alesander before he could think better of it. His cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder, his lips finding the line of his neck.

The ferry rocked beneath them, boards creaking, salt thick in the night air. Yet the world outside felt impossibly far away, as though they had slipped into a secret place beyond time. Lantern-light caught in Alesander’s hair, across the pale sweep of his cheek, and Davos thought he had never seen anything so alive, so beloved.

“Let’s go home…” Davos hummed. Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling, mouths brushing faintly as if neither could bear distance. “No more secrets. I swear it.”

He wanted to be cautious of the docks, the watching eyes, the careful silences that had guarded him all his life. But what storm could hold back the lightning in his chest now? The way Alesander had said his name—Lord Davos Allyrion—as if it meant more than land or title. As if it meant him.

They walked back to Godsgrace hand in hand, palms pressed together like twin heartbeats. Every inch of Davos’ skin was alive, his nerves strung taut, Alesander plucking each one in perfect harmony. His mind whirled with a single refrain: more, more, more, more.

“My brother is alive,” Davos confessed, startled by the silence, needing to fill it. “They say I killed him. I didn’t. He lives in Volantis with his wife. I don’t have spies on him, it didn’t feel right.”

Another turn, his wounded hand tightening painfully in Alesander’s grasp. He hissed, but kept going.

“I do have spies. That much is true. Mostly former brothel workers, I trained them myself. I smoke, but I hate to drink. I can only ride my mare, Velma, on any other horse I’d fall flat. My hands are scarred from chemical waste. I sleep with one candle burning and a dagger under my pillow. I lied: I remember every person I’ve killed. I hate trousers, they make my skin itch. I’m afraid of going blind because of my eyes. If I could, I’d walk barefoot always. When I’m nervous, I scrub the floors—or myself—until one of us bleeds. I always wanted a cat, but I fear it would love my sisters more. I’ve dreamt of you since the day you came to Godsgrace. I love spicy food, though it makes me weep. I have a scar on my hip where Mors stabbed me. I’m still talking because I’m nervous, and I apologize, but if I don’t kiss you again very soon, I’ll perish.”

By the gate, Alesander glanced at him, brows drawn in that familiar way, ready to ask a question he already knew the answer to.

“Follow me,” Davos murmured, kissing the back of his hand. His lips lingered, both a reverent promise, a distraction.

In his chambers, Davos did not let go. It wasn’t Ales’ first time here, but it felt new, charged. The silence between them no longer fragile but expectant. Theirs.

He turned, torchlight painting Alesander in shifting gold. Davos’ breath stilled.

“I need to tell you something more,” he said, voice low. “That night… the first time you kissed me. You were drunk. You looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense… and you kissed me.”

He laughed, short and awkward. Oh gods, I’m blushing.

“I didn’t kiss you back. Not because I didn’t want to. I wanted to… so much it hurt. But I was afraid I’d do it wrong.” His hands fidgeted, then stilled. “I don’t have… the kind of experience others do. I’m not naïve. I know what happens. I’ve read books, heard the boasts. But I never wanted that, not like that. I wanted it to mean something.”

As you do.

His thumb traced Alesander’s cheekbone, reverent. Their noses brushed once more, breath mingling shallow, searching.

“Teach me,” he whispered. “Teach me to kiss you, to touch you, to make you like it.”

And Alesander did.

The kiss was not awkward, not fumbling. It was full, alive. Heat and tenderness, sacred in the way Alesander guided him, coaxed him, showed him.

The night unfurled like a secret.

Davos had known heat only in theory, in overheard boasts and clinical descriptions and the stories men traded like coin. But none of those things had ever spoken of this, of aching tenderness, of laughter between kisses, of fingers twining like roots in the soil of a shared bed. Of being held like something unbearable to lose.

He hadn’t known it could feel like heaven.

He hadn’t known it could feel like love.

Now the world was quiet again. The moon traced silver lines along their tangled limbs, and the air smelled like warm skin and open windows.

Davos was still kissing him slowly, lazily, trying to memorize the shape of each other’s mouths, like stopping might mean forgetting.

As if the night could stretch on forever. And maybe it could.

Their limbs were still tangled, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed, and Alesander’s neck and shoulders were bitten red where Davos had marked him in the dark, clumsy heat of wanting.

The urge to keep touching Ales, to keep proving this was real, made Davos’ hands restless.

“Ales…” His voice was soft. Drowsy. Scared. “Will you stay the night?”

A beat passed, and Davos’ throat worked as he corrected himself, voice shaking just slightly.

“No. I mean—could you stay forever?”

Morning came in the shape of Ales’ curls, mussed and haloed.

Davos was a fool. He had a dozen better things to do than sit in his room watching Ales move about like he owned the place. Wearing his clothes, no less, neck marked with Davos’ teeth. And there Davos lay, sheet tangled at his hips, body mapped in scratches and bites like he’d fought his way through a feral brawl. Maybe he had.

Ales reached for a book, fingers trailing its spine as though he belonged here. Like the morning, the intimacy, the comfort were not fragile things at all.

“This book is about High Valyrian,” Davos rasped, his voice rough. “I was never fond of the Targaryens, but the Daynes speak it. So do many of the Free Folk. If they cross into Godsgrace, I need to understand them.”

Ales smiled.

Perfect, radiant, too good for me.

Davos rose, tying his tunic, though his hands wandered back to Ales’ waist, tracing the freckles on his shoulders into constellations.

“This one’s Ursa Major,” he murmured against Ales’ skin, lips trailing up to the blush at his ear. “This one is mine.”

He nipped at Ales’ earlobe, unable to stop himself from marking the pale skin with proof of possession.

No more secrets.

There was still one left.

“Would you…” Davos hesitated, hiding his face against Ales’ back as an excuse to kiss over his spine. “Would you see the West Wing with me? It’s clean now. I could light the lanterns, explain… it won’t look like…”

Death.

“It’s part of your home too. If you want it to be.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Once they were off the ferry, their hands joined. It didn’t matter who reached for who first, just that they were connected now, with no intention of ever separating.

Alesander walked by Davos side, quietly, smiling contently down at his feet as they brought him closer to Godsgrace. To home.

There was so much he wanted to say, to do, but he didn’t. Not yet. He knew that he and Davos had all of the time in the world now to do as they pleased. There was so much love inside of him, and he wondered if Davos could feel it.

When Davos was the one to break the silence finally, Ales could only stare at him in awe. He was confessing, telling Ales truths that he hadn’t told him before, speaking on about anything and everything, and Ales listened. There was nothing sweeter in the world than the sound of Davos’ voice. There was nothing better than the feeling of honesty. It was Ales’ turn to share that honesty.

Alesander softly laughed at the last words Davos had said. “Thank you for telling me all of that. I suppose it’s my turn now.”

“So…” where to start? Well, where had Davos started?

With a deep breath in, he began.

“My notebooks are filled with stories, written by me, but I show no one. I have a stash of books underneath my bed in Kings Landing, I stole all of them from the library. I have a horse named Oak, he is my pride and joy. My nameday passed on the second moon I was here, in Godsgrace, I turned ten and nine. My favorite meal is mushroom soup, and I love tea with extra lemon and honey every morning. I excel in sword fighting, but I have no passion for it. I used to be called the “rosebud” of the Parchements, because in my youth I followed my mother everywhere, who is called the “rose.” Also in part because I like to wear flower patterned outfits. I often forget to eat when things go wrong in my life. I’ve been with many men, and I’ve hated all of them. You’re the only man I have ever loved…”

He stopped, deeming that the perfect place to. They could share more things later, after all, they had a lifetime to do so.

“Teach me how to kiss you. How to touch you. How to make you like it.”

Alesander’s breath hitched at those words. Davos was so close to him now, almost kissing him, and Alesander was ready to lunge forward and give him every once of love that he possibly could.

How to make me like it?

He had never heard words like those before. Every time he had been with a man before, it had been a meaningless mess of desperation on Alesanders part. A desperate attempt to wash away his loneliness and hope someone might save him from reality.

Not one had ever asked him what he wanted or what he liked, and not one had cared about what he did not like. Not like Davos had just did before him. Ales had always done things for others, made sure his lovers were comfortable and pleased while he comforted himself with the fact that he should be grateful he’s not alone.

But this was different. Davos loved him, Davos cared about him, and Davos was right in front of him now.

Not wanting to wait another moment, he simply said, “I will.” And he kissed Davos.

Alesander would have been content to spend the rest of the night with Davos on him, kissing him as slowly as he was now.

His neck and shoulders ached where Davos’ teeth had sunk into his skin. An ache that told him all of this was real, an ache that he wanted to remember.

His hands lovingly held Davos’ back, stroking the strong muscles and skin there where his nails had previously scratched.

When Davos pulled away, beginning to kiss Ales everywhere else, he only laid back and allowed it. He watched Davos move across his body, kiss his head and his shoulders and touch him like no one else had before, and Alesander simply allowed it.

He’d never felt love like this, never had someone put their lips all over him like he was something to worship. Now that he had it with Davos, Ales did not think he could ever live without it.

Then Davos spoke Ales’ name, looking at him with his kind, piercing eyes.

“Will you stay the night?” Davos said, and Ales began to smile at that.

Then, “no. I mean—could you stay forever?”

Alesander could sense the worry in his voice, the worry that Ales would leave and this would suddenly be over. But that wasn’t reality.

“Oh, Davos.”

He moved his hands and gently held Davos’ face, his sweet face.

“I was never planning on leaving.”

He rubbed his thumbs down his cheeks lovingly, staring up at the Lord of Godsgrace.

Ales wanted to memorize every small detail he could, his eyes moving from Davos’ own eyes to the beautiful features of his face.

Ales scanned the freckles and beauty marks that were scattered all over his lovers face, all perfectly placed and like stars on the most beautiful night.

His lips, more red and now glossy from their kissing, and pouty as they always were, so perfect Ales wanted to touch them.

His eyelashes, gently swooping over his beautiful eyes, fluttering against Ales’ face when they were so close but not kissing.

His sweet nose, which had also graced Ales’ face as they kissed. It was darling to him.

Ales moved one hand off of Davos’ face, and immediately brought it back, but not to hold it… he had a different plan.

His pointer finger poked Davos nose, quickly and playfully, and Alesander softly laughed. He watched in delight as Davos crinkled his nose, clearly confused.

“You are cute. Handsome, of course, and cute.”

He laughed again, and then put that hand again on Davos’ back. He thought about his lovers question again, thinking about how they would soon need to sleep. He sighed, wanting to drag the night on for as long as he could, and wanting to keep is eyes wide open and stare at his lover forever.

“Have you ever slept beside someone? I have not. I’ve been with many people, but I always left before I fell asleep…” He did not know why he admitted it now, but he suddenly felt he wanted to. He felt he wanted to reveal every secret he’d ever kept to Davos right now, in the comfort of this night. Even when the words felt like they shouldn’t leave his lips, he still wanted to.

“I wasn’t comfortable with them. I was… miserable.” He paused, his voice thickening with emotion that came surfacing upon remembering what he used to live like.

“But with you… I’m not. With you, I’m… happy.”

He then surged up, quickly pulling Davos into a tight hug, smiling at hearing Davos’ gasp at the unexpected embrace.

“I love you. Please, love me while I sleep. Lay close to me. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

Alesander could feel Davos’ eyes on him as he moved about the room, searching every little inch of it.

Well, he thought. It’s now my room too. Why not have a look around?

Before his search began, he made sure to partially dress himself. With Davos’ clothes, of course.

It was neater than his own room, filled with little things that caught Ales’ eye.

Naturally, his attention gravitated towards a book on the shelf, one he hadn’t seen before. Once it was in his hands, he began to flip through it. High Valyrian, he saw, a language familiar to him after a lifetime of living with the Targaryens. He knew the Braavosi dialect as well, being half-Braavosi himself.

Flipping through the pages, he stopped when Davos started talking to him. He looked over to the other man, smiling at him then.

Davos was still on the bed- their bed. Their bed, their room, their books, their clothes.

“I’m half-Braavosi, you know. I speak it as well.” He teased, watching Davos start to wander over towards him.

Then Davos’ hands were on his waist, his lips on his shoulders exploring there. Ales leaned into the touch, setting the book down and putting his hands over Davos’.

How nice it felt, to be touched by someone he loved. Someone he was comfortable with, someone he cared for more than anyone in the world.

He blushed when he felt teeth on his earlobe. “Dav…” The nickname came out fast, he hadn’t even had to think about it.

Then, Davos stopped, bringing his lips to Ales’ spine.

“It’s part of your home too. If you want it to be.”

Ales spun around then, moving to hold Davos face in his hands. He made sure Davos was looking at him as he spoke next. “Yes,” he said softly. “I want to see it. It is part of my home now, and I won’t run away this time. Never again.”

He felt slightly guilty for all that had happened yesterday, but, he kept a firm hold on Davos’ face.

He remembered that yesterday had turned into this, to them here and now. He had to keep looking forward. He had to believe that everything would continue to be okay, as long as they had each other.

One of his hands trailed down to hold one of Davos’. “Let’s properly dress first, then go, okay?” He began to drag Davos towards the dresser.

“Which one of your outfits do you believe I would look best in?” Ales jested, laughing softly, hoping to make Davos smile.

[davos-allyrion]

“Not man enough,” Ferris had said the first time he caught Davos secretly twirling in a skirt before the mirror. Once, in the old days of Westeros, men had worn tunics and gowns without shame, Davos knew that. It was one of the reasons he had once dreamed of becoming a Maester. No one called them unmanly for how the heavy habits they dressed in.

From a young age, Davos understood he liked feeling like someone worth looking at. He liked the sweep of powder around his eyes, the weight of earrings, the drag of embroidered fabric trailing behind him.

He liked—he admitted begrudgingly—to look pretty.

Since becoming a lord, his wardrobe had nearly doubled. With his sisters' support and no one there to scold or sneer, he had become something of a raven: drawn helplessly to everything that glittered.

Everyone at court knew him either for the kohl smudged at his lashes or the blood drying on his hands.

Maybe that was why his mouth went dry when Ales casually suggested borrowing something from his closet. Davos knew his family would stand by him regardless of who lived in his heart, but the idea of everyone knowing about them made his chest ache. He wanted to call off the council entirely, shut the doors, and spend the day watching Ales draped in his silks and jewels.

Be mine. Be mine as I am yours.

“My outfits?” Davos murmured, a smile tugging at his lips as he pressed them to Alesander’s neck. Meetings? No. Not today. “You’d wear them?”

Ales’ smile could light a whole town by itself.

“I’ve always wanted to take a peek at your wardrobe. Borrow a few things, perhaps,” Ales said teasingly, tipping his head back slightly as Davos’ lips touched him there. “But I was too shy to ask before… so, may I?”

Davos remembered all of their countless late night talks and how the subject of clothing came up sometimes, lurking between tiny confessions. Ales had always dressed uniquely. He’d been admired for it, just as much as he’d been scorned for it. A little boy in flowers and frilly shirts who followed his mother around everywhere, it was a thing to ridicule for many of the other boys back at the Parchments.

Davos wanted to snap their necks in half like the pests they were.

“What’s mine is now yours,” Davos murmured, brushing a final kiss against Ales’ temple. “Follow me.”

Davos would hardly notice if the world ended; his mind was caught somewhere between the thrill of anticipation and the dizzy warmth of having Ales close enough to touch. He could feel Ales’ hand tense and relax in his, the way someone might do when stepping into the sea.

Hold me, but don’t drag me down.

The door to the closet opened into what had once been a drawing room, now transformed into something almost reverent. Sunlight spilled through arched windows onto marble floors so pale they seemed to glow. Every garment was arranged with the precision of a map—robes, doublets, gowns, and coats organized by color and by season. Silks shimmered beside brocades; furs lined the corners where winter cloaks rested in quiet dignity. It smelled faintly of cedar, rosewater, and oil of myrrh.

“Frugal, some might call it,” Davos said softly, as if embarrassed by the excess. “But I like knowing where everything belongs. I’ve lived in these halls so long I could walk them blindfolded.”

“It’s wonderful.” Ales stated, a faint smile staying on his face. His eyes ran over the shelves, pupils swallowing the green in them. There was no mockery in the way Ales’ eyes traced Davos’ clothes, no calculation, only wonder. Quiet, genuine wonder. It settled beneath Davos’ ribs like a warm coal.

He tugged gently on Ales’ hand, bringing him further inside. The urge to press him against the shelves, to kiss him until the scent of linen and lavender filled his lungs, was almost overwhelming. But he forced himself to breathe.

What a hungry beast love made of him.

Perianne had made most of these garments—Perianne with her clever fingers and maddening eye for detail. She’d been at the head of the Red Keep for nearly a decade, stitching Davos’ vanity into something fine enough to wear to court. As he watched Ales’ eyes trace the lines of a deep-blue velvet gown, Davos made a mental note to send her a letter. Ales would need his own clothes soon, something that reflected him rather than borrowed finery.

Ales avoided his eyes, hesitating. Davos knew that silence. Not the kind born of disinterest, but the kind shaped by someone who had learned to want gently, privately, for fear of offending the world by asking for more. He wanted to take that it and break it apart, piece by fragile piece, until Ales never again felt the need to swallow his wants.

“You may wear whatever you wish,” Davos rushed, stepping closer, his voice lowering into something half-command, half-plea. “I have more than I could ever use, and I know seamstresses that could make new pieces before supper if you asked it of them.”

He pulled a tunic over his head as he spoke, the fabric catching briefly on his earrings before sliding down his shoulders. “Still,” he added with a wry smile, “I’d rather like to see what you choose. I suspect it’ll suit you better than it ever suited me.”

He leaned in, close enough for Ales to feel the warmth of his breath. “So, tell me, my love, what do you wish to wear?”

Ales pursed his lips, blush taking over his neck and crawling upwards to his cheeks and ears. Ales reached out, fingertips brushing the fabric of Davos’ tunic, an excuse more than a touch. Davos went still, heat creeping up his own throat. They matched. “I want to wear…”

Ales’ eyes looked behind Davos, finding a particular piece he was drawn to. A dark red doublet, probably his only one with floral patterns. Ales pointed at it above Davos’ shoulder. He turned slightly, following Ales’ gaze to the doublet hanging nearby. He had never worn that one himself, but he could not deny that Perianne had made it beautifully. Soft as breath, meant to catch the light like wine in the sun.

“That one, it’s a beautiful color, I used to wear that color a lot! The color of roses, that’s why I liked it, I…” Davos stepped closer, reaching past Ales’ shoulder to take the doublet down. Silk whispered against wool. “I’ll try that one. Help me out?”

“Roses suit you,” he murmured, holding it out with both hands as though he were offering a crown. “Soft petals. Sharp thorns.”

His gaze found Ales’, gentle but unwavering. You are allowed to want this. Let me give it to you.

“Lift your arms for me.”

Ales complied, laughing a little. “Yes, Lord Davos!”

Carefully, reverently, he dressed him. He let his knuckles brush Ales’ skin only in passing, like a promise he dared not fully touch. And Davos thought: if this was all he did today, if council meetings remained unattended and letters unwritten, then so be it. Let it be for this. For Ales, who looked at silk as though it were spun from starlight, and at Davos as though he were something worth trusting.

“This one was meant for the Crownlands courts,” Davos said, smoothing an invisible crease, then, deciding he wanted more, he leaned in to steal a brief kiss. “It seems it has found its rightful owner. You look stunning.”

He lifted Ales’ hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles before resting it over his heart.

“Thank you…” Ales murmured, blushing to match the fabric. Davos could see a protest forming against the cogs of his brain, getting ready to kiss it away.

“What next?” Davos prompted. “A gown? A mantle? A houppelande? I believe I still have trousers somewhere, if you insist…”

“Hmm,” Ales looked around—his own treasure hunt—until something else caught his eye. His feet seemed to move him towards the outfit before he could process that he was walking away. He brought the sleeve up to his face, studying it.

“Oh! I’ve seen you wear this before! I’d like to try this one too, I’m fond of these patterns. I’ll need this off of me now…” Ales teased, tugging at the collar of his doublet.

Blood in shark filled water.

Flirting. Ales was flirting with him. Years at court had trained Davos to spot advances and stamp them out. People never liked to admit how short the distance was between a hand at the waist and a fist to the face.

Yet now, for the first time in his life, someone was flirting with Davos, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

He wanted more of that smile that reshaped Alesander’s entire face, more of the fleeting touches, more excuses to undress him. More, more, more.

And if Ales was willing to indulge him, who in the Seven Kingdoms would dare stand in his way?

“Anything you want. Anything…” Davos murmured as he grabbed Ales by the doublet, his hands sliding beneath the fabric, splaying over the soft shirt before stripping both away with deliberate slowness. The sight made his breath catch.

He’d always hated celebrating his nameday—too antisocial for grand balls, too busy for courtly niceties. But for the first time, he understood the thrill of celebration, the delight in unwrapping a gift meant only for him.

Bow by bow. Button by button. Every undone knot felt like a prayer answered, every glimpse of skin a revelation. The gods had never seemed generous to Davos before, but now he could almost believe. Ales was his own gift, a blessing he’d fight anyone to keep.

Ales had chosen the outfit well, an entire ensemble. Davos started with the skirt, sinking to his knees with more ease than he’d ever managed in prayer. Some said faith was a calling, but Davos feared he would never believe in anything the way he believed in Ales in that moment. He pressed a kiss to Ales’ knee, another to his calf, before climbing higher, only stopping to fasten the belt before his mind ventured into more dangerous ideas.

Maybe later. Definitely later.

One fold and tuck. Then a second. Three, four, five. He tugged gently at the skirt’s edge, making sure it sat perfectly on the belt.

Then came the shirt, the jewelry, the small clasps that secured the front into elegance. By the time Davos fastened the mantle, completing the outfit, they had drifted closer, mouths finding each other between words, between breaths. The kiss deepened, dizzying, until they were pressed against a shelf, half-dressed and wholly undone.

“Beautiful. Stunning. I could watch you all day,” Davos whispered between kisses, laughing softly as one hand smoothed fabric and the other curled into Ales’ hair. Multitasking had always been his talent. “You should keep this one too. Gods, you should keep them all. Look at you, straight out of a dream.”

He guided Ales toward the mirror in the corner, kiss by kiss, until they stood together. Davos adjusted the mantle again, fussing with the fabric until it framed Ales perfectly, then stood back just enough so Ales could see himself.

“Wait,” he said, a dazed chuckle escaping him as warmth bloomed across his ears. “Have you always been as tall as me?”

“Hm? Oh, you’re right,” he murmured, looking down at his feet. Breathless and warm. “My posture is so dreadful, I must have appeared shorter.”

Davos’s hands were already kneading the tension from Ales’s shoulders before hen even finished his sentence. Poor posture would come back to haunt him one day—bones weakening, aches settling in with age.

Davos wouldn’t be here forever. The thought passed through him like a storm cloud.

Mortality was something he’d long accepted, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped feeling the weight of it. He could not grant himself more years, but he could give what he had now: steady hands, quiet mornings, small mercies. He could help Ales while he still could. He could ease the tension in his back, trace the line of his spine until the muscles loosened beneath his palms. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could coax Ales into joining the yoga sessions he shared with Kiera every sunrise from time to time. Small things. But they mattered.

“So sorry, I didn’t mean to deceive you, Lord Davos…” Ales said in mock remorse, his lips twitching as he tried and failed to hide a smile. “At least this means we always get to share the same clothes.”

Davos chuckled, the sound rumbling warmly in his chest. He slid his arms down and around Ales’ waist, pulling him back so their bodies aligned, his chin hovering just above Ales’ shoulder. For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to the steady rhythm of breathing, the soft hum of their shared warmth. Davos thought, not for the first time, that Ales seemed to belong there, perfectly molded to fit the space in his arms.

“I think this was a plot to take over my wardrobe,” Davos said with mock despair, lips curling into a grin. “Oh dear heavens, what am I to do?”

He gave Ales’ side a teasing squeeze, just enough to make him laugh. The sound, bright and unrestrained, filled the room. Ales’ eyes flicked toward the mirror, catching the image of them together, two figures tangled in warmth and laughter.

Then he looked away once again.

We can’t have that.

Davos adopted an exaggerated pout and tipped Ales’s chin up with two fingers, guiding his gaze back to the reflection. “And since when am I Lord Davos again? Have I been demoted? I’m certain I was just Dav a moment ago…”

Ales’ arms snaked up to Davos’ forearms, hands resting there comfortably. It was almost unbelievable to remember that before last night, they only shared brief touches, stolen glances, tiptoeing a distance where they could not reach each other.

Torture, really.

It felt as though none of that had been real, and they had been here, in each other’s arms, this whole time.

“Oh no, that’s not a demotion. You’re Lord Davos, Lord of…” he paused, thinking for a moment. “Lord of lovely clothes, of fashionable taste, of…” then he looked at Davos, not in the mirror, but in front of him. “my heart.”

Davos had collected many monikers over the years. He favored The Butcher—brutal, timeless. Lynx’s Eyes felt patronizing in a way he couldn’t quite name and refused to examine. Lord Vulture sparked a deep, simmering anger he would rather not feel.

But Lord of my heart?

That one was too soft, too tender, too full of gentle devotion for a man like him.

And yet, he hoped the historians would tuck it somewhere in the margins of their books, in quiet ink at the bottom of a page where his name could rest:

Loathed by many. Loved by Alesander Penrose.

That would be enough, he mused. More than enough.

“Hmm, I like that one,” Davos murmured against Ales’ lips, words brushing warmly between kisses. His fingers drifted to the clasp of Alesander’s mantle with practiced ease. “Now then, what’s the next outfit, darling? I have all day.”

And an entire lifetime for you.

Ales looked away, glancing at the tiles on the floor that painted with the golden light of the morning.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a hinder on your duties…”

“My routine hasn’t been interrupted by anything short of death in years,” Davos said with a soft huff of laughter. “So by all means, ruin my plans.”

When Ales’ hand came up to his dark hair, he leaned into the touch at his scalp—catlike, content, utterly devoted. It made sense to him now, the little animals who purred beneath gentle hands. Ales’ fingers were warm, and the short nails dragging slowly through his hair felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever be allowed.

“Oh! Close your eyes, I’ll surprise you this time.” Ales commanded, smile taking over his face.

He closed his eyes when Ales told him to. Ryon had always said he’d make a fine commander one day, but never a proper soldier, too stubborn to follow orders. Maybe he was right.

A smile threatened at the corner of Davos’ mouth. He tried. Gods, he tried to obey. But Ales was his, and temptation was a stubborn, merciless thing. So yes, he peeked.

He watched through barely parted lashes the way Ales’ fingers trembled as they worked the buttons, the way he paused now and then as though gathering courage in his palms. And when he lifted the fabric to his face, eyes distant, as he sniffed, Davos’ heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Maybe Ales knew he was being watched. Maybe he didn’t. But how could Davos not look? The moment Ales turned away, clutching Davos’ clothes with that quiet determination, he cracked one eye open… then the other. Just enough to see sunlight spill across Ales’ shoulders, gilding him like something dreamt, not born.

“Hey! No looking!”

“I couldn’t help it,” Davos confessed, hands lifting in mock surrender. His eyes closed anyway. “If you missed me that much, you could’ve just asked for a hug instead of inhaling my shirt…”

“Now you can look! This one is nice… I like the sleeves,” Ales waved a hand a little bit, examining the way the fabric moved, clearly proud of his own choice.

When he was commanded to look, Davos was blessed with Ales wearing his clothes once more. His colors. His scent. The sleeves hung just a little loose around his wrists, and Davos’ chest felt too small for what it held.

It was like a magnetic pull, something inevitable, something his body did without thinking.

And Gods, he looked good.

Dressed in a tailored ensemble of white, silver, and gold. A small, irrational part of Davos took pride in it, in seeing Ales dressed in something that was, in some way, a claim. It felt like a quiet victory, a whisper of ownership, subtle yet deeply satisfying.

And then there were the marks Davos left last night.

Hidden beneath fabric, pressed into skin with lips and teeth, deep purpling bruises along Ales’s chest, his ribs, the inside of his thighs.

A secret between them, a silent confession that would never reach another soul.

Ales flushed, that same beautiful shade as before, and Davos reached out. His fingertips brushed over the wide sleeve Ales liked so much, followed the line of his arm, his shoulder, then gently tilted his chin upward.

He took a moment. Just to look. To see him bathed in gold, draped in colors that looked like they’d always belonged to him. Softness in his eyes, sunlight in his hair.

“You look so…” he murmured, getting closer and closer.

For a split-second, it had all the hesitant romance of the great novels—lovers slowly reeled into one another by their red thread. But that split-second came and went, and their red thread pulled taut, fast.

Davos seized his cheek and came to him quickly, kissing him with a sharp breath in. That tension is instantly rewritten as fervour, and it consumes him like nothing’s ever consumed him before. Ales cupped the back of Davos’ neck so he could press into the kiss, crooning in his throat. 

Ales must have felt his smile against his lips, because he let out a barely-conscious little sound of question that Davos simply had to kiss away.

When they finally parted, breaths tangled, neither couldn’t keep the smile from their faces.

“If wearing my clothes lets me see you like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over Ales’ flushed cheek, “then I think you ought to keep them forever.”

I ought to keep you forever.

“We’ll share them,” Ales leaned into the touch on his face, smoothing his thumb over the back of Davos’ neck.

“Next time, you can try on my clothes, if you’d like. You’ll look handsome,” pushing another stray hair from Davos’ face with his free hand, he leaned forward and kissed Davos on the nose. Oh, how Davos loved when he did that. “Just like you always do.”

Dear Mother Rhoyne, may I keep it? May I keep him? May I live a tad longer with him by my side?

“Of course… of course…” 

By the time the sun was long gone, Davos had bitten his lips raw, teeth worrying the skin until it bled. The taste of iron sat easy on his tongue; concern and copper had always gone hand in hand.

He had sat through one meeting, scarcely present, mind gnawed hollow by anticipation. Alesander would be waiting, how the thought thrilled and unstrung him both. He had promised to take him to the West Wing tonight.

He paced the laboratory, shadows trailing him like smoke. He could light a cigarette, let the haze blunt the pulse in his throat. He could drown himself in work; work never slept, though he sometimes wished it would. Maybe he should—

The door creaked open, slow as breath. His heart found its tempo in Ales’ footsteps. A smile caught at his mouth, twisting one corner upward. What a cursed, blessed thing it was, to be loved by someone so angelic.

“Ready?” Davos asked, tongue passing over split lips, the sting of blood grounding him. Fitting, really. You’re taking him to a slaughterhouse.

“We can go another day, truly… when there’s still sunlight. It tends to look rather… unkind at night. I wouldn’t wish…”

To scare you again.

“…to disturb your sleep more than I already have.”

“It’s okay, Davos, it’s okay.” Ales spoke softly, smoothing his thumbs over Davos’ dry hands with more care than they deserved. “I want to go now, no more waiting, if that’s alright with you…”

He barely knows how much blood stained the palms touching him. Foolish lamb, falling for the executioner.

“I’m here to stay, I’m here to listen, and to understand.”

Davos looked at Ales’ hands over his own—steady, certain—and almost wished he hadn’t. That warmth, that trust, was unbearable in a place like this. The West Wing deserved only his ghosts.

“Alright,” he murmured, though his voice cracked on the word. “Alright, then.”

He reached for the lantern, its flame guttering at the disturbance, and led Ales down the narrow corridor. The air grew warmer with every step, heavier. There was a quiet to this part of the castle that never felt natural, too still, as if the walls themselves were listening.

At the end of the stairwell, Davos paused before a narrow door reinforced with iron. Its hinges sighed when he pushed it open.

The West Wing breathed around them.

What had once been a bathing chamber was now a sanctum of industry and decay. The air was humid, chalk-scented, and strangely metallic. The floor sloped slightly, a remnant of its old drains. Copper pipes wound up the walls like veins, still dripping, their echo sharp in the hush. Tables of stone and steel stood arranged beneath the arches—clean, but not innocent. The smell was sterile, almost sharp enough to sting the eyes, yet beneath it lingered that faint undertone of mortality that no amount of lye could scrub out. He hated that Ales would smell it too.

Davos crossed the room and pulled a chain. One by one, lanterns kindled to life, each catching from the next until the chamber burned golden and terrible. The light flickered across jars of tinctures, half-shattered glassware, surgical tools laid out with devotional precision.

And in the far corner, where the shadows clung deepest, stood a great iron tub. The liquid inside was pale and still, a ghostly mirror. Its surface shimmered faintly with fumes—acidic, acrid, unholy in its quietness.

“For dissolving,” Davos murmured. “I could not risk questions. When the work failed… I could not leave traces.” His voice was calm, almost tender, but the words trembled. “I thought it mercy. That they might vanish cleanly, painlessly.”

He moved closer to the nearest table, running a shaky hand along the cold metal.

“It began with my father,” Davos said, the lanternlight shaking across his face. “Ferris Allyrion. Strong, golden, impossible to imagine undone. Until he was. The fever took him first, then the bruising, then the tremors. Maesters came and left with their books and empty hands.”

Davos went on. “I could not watch him rot in prayer. So I began to look. To cut. To test. To understand.”

The jars on the shelves held no horrors now, only notes, instruments, small relics of attempts that hadn’t worked. He could almost see the ghosts of them, pale figures reclining on those tables, pleading and fading in turn.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this,” he continued, his voice low, confessional. “I thought—I truly thought—if I could understand what tore him apart, I could save him. That there had to be a cure, if I only looked hard enough. But I was cutting at shadows, carving knowledge out of the dying.”

He set the lantern down. His fingers clenched, though not from fear.

“When I realized what I’d done, it was already too late to stop. The sickness in him changed, and so did I. Every failure made me crueller, every success, emptier.”

Davos looked at Ales then, the light painting his face in amber and shadow.

“You said no more secrets,” he said softly. “Then here it is. My great salvation. My great sin.”

He smiled then, a small, broken thing. “You wanted to understand, and I am letting you. But tell me, Ales… when love leads you here, when it smells like this… does it still feel like love at all?”

“No more secrets,” Ales repeated, voice a little unsteady. Did he fear Davos too? Did he finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and noticed it was nothing more than the glint of a blade?

Slowly, oh so slowly, Ales walked forward.

For a moment, Davos forgot how to breathe.

Ales’ arms were around him, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his tunic, through the salt and the guilt, through everything he had tried to build to keep this very thing from happening. Davos stood there, unmoving, as if afraid the slightest motion might shatter the moment and send them both tumbling into the acid bath behind them.

“Thank you for telling me… I understand now,” Alesander whispered, not pulling away just yet. “Nothing will ever change the way I love you. Nothing…”

He hadn’t expected forgiveness. He hadn’t even expected understanding. Only silence, or horror, or the soft sound of footsteps retreating up the stair.

But Ales did not run.

Ales stayed.

Davos’ hands, hesitant, lifted and found the small of his back, the line of his ribs. The human warmth there was almost unbearable after so much time surrounded by things that no longer breathed.

The air around them flickered gold with the lanterns; it painted the two of them like figures in some old fresco—two men clasped in the middle of a sanctum made for endings. His throat ached with things he couldn’t name.

When Ales whispered his love, something in Davos’ chest gave way—some old, rusted hinge unstuck. He pulled back just enough to look at him.

“I’m sorry that I ever came here with judgment, I am truly sorry...” Ales brushed the hair from Davos’ face as he studied him in the lamplight. What a tragedy it was to be looked at kindly. Davos half wished Ales would’ve struck him.

“I understand that you try to help people, that you do help people, that all of this, it’s you fighting against a world that isn’t fair, it’s you learning more than others have dared to, I…” Ales let out a shaky breath, voice narrowing down to a whisper. “What is a part of you is a part of me now. You’ll never have to hide again. Will you allow me to love every single part of you?”

“You shouldn’t say that here,” Davos murmured, a thin, trembling pout finding its way to his lips. “The walls will hear you. They’ll keep it for themselves.”

He let his gaze wander, following the lines of light across the metal tables, the rows of jars, the tub simmering faintly in the corner. What a cathedral of ruin I’ve built for myself, he thought.

He laughed softly, the sound breaking mid-breath. “You call it fighting a cruel world. I call it refusing to let the world have the last word. Every life I tried to save was a rebellion against its indifference, and every one I lost was another brick in this tomb.”

Only the truth shall set you free.

He took Ales’ hand carefully and pressed it against his chest, over his heart. It was pounding, fierce and unsteady.

“You hear that?” he whispered. “That’s all that’s left of me worth saving. And if you still mean what you said, then yes. Yes, Ales. I’ll let you love me. I’ll let you damn yourself with me, if that’s what it comes to.”

The lanterns hissed in their sconces, the shadows bending close, as if to listen.

“Just don’t ask me to be good,” he murmured. “I don’t know how to be that anymore. But I can try to be yours.”

“I meant what I said,” Ales stated, more certain than Davos had ever felt. “My love is yours, forever yours, and I am yours. I’ll have you just as you are, every piece of you. Every part that you think isn’t worth saving, I’ll love it all.”

His hand carefully came up, cradling Davos’ face, not unlike one did to a hound before giving it a muzzle.

“You’re everything to me.” Ales whispered.

Davos closed his eyes. For a moment, the world was nothing but the heat of Ales’ hand against his cheek and the trembling air between them. It was too much—too bright, too pure—and he didn’t know where to put it inside himself.

He had spent so long surrounded by silence and decay that love, when it touched him, felt like a wound.

A small, broken sound escaped him; it might have been a laugh or a sob, he couldn’t tell anymore. “Everything to you,” he echoed, shaking his head. “I’ve never been anyone’s everything. Never even thought I could be.”

He looked at Ales then, really looked at him, at the soft sincerity of his face, the way the lamplight gilded the edges of his hair, the unguarded devotion in his eyes.

“If you stay, I’ll spend what’s left of my life trying to be worthy of the way you look at me right now. I can’t promise anything but the truth.”

Davos brushed a stray curl from Ales’ face, a mimicked motion, and smiled faintly, weary and tender, teeth chattering from the inner chill.

“Forever, then,” he whispered. “If you’ll have me that way.”

Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months. Time had taken on that strange, weightless quality it acquires when the heart is newly, foolishly, wonderfully in love. Hours raced past in the shape of familiar duties and unfamiliar feelings that refused to be ignored. A misplaced laugh, a tentative brush of fingers, the dizzying rush of blood that tinted the world in new colors.

Godsgrace loved Ales. The Allyrions adored Ales. Davos carried the quiet, irrefutable certainty that Ales loved them back.
And him.
And oh, how they loved each other.

Life felt miraculously simple. No inquisitors hunting shadows, no sense of otherness creeping at the edges of their days, no obstacles worth naming. The road ahead seemed smooth, almost blessed.

At least, until that night.

Leaving Alesander’s side was a tragedy in itself, but leaving to entertain Lord Perros? That was a disgrace. May the gods strike him down, Davos thought bitterly, his mood blackening further with every step. He’d barely had the presence of mind to leave his dagger behind, resting it against the bedpost in case some intruder dared to surprise Alesander while he was away. One could never be too careful.

“Lord Davos,” Perros greeted him, his smile spreading far too wide, teeth flashing like a shark scenting blood. “How… delightful to see you. Come, take a seat. We have matters to discuss.”

The gall. Telling him to sit in his own hall. Davos ignored the chair entirely, leaning against the edge of the table instead, arms crossed. He should be in Alesander’s arms right now, savoring the warmth of his skin and the scent of his hair. Not wasting his time with this.

“I know, little lord,” Perros began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if he were about to share a treasure worth dying for. “I know.”

Davos raised an eyebrow. “Do you always speak in riddles after inviting yourself into someone else’s home?”

Perros grinned, enjoying the moment far too much. “I know about you and the Penrose boy,” he purred, smug satisfaction dripping from his every word. “I know what his father would do if he found out his son had become your whor—”

Davos didn’t think, his hand flew to Perros’s throat before the words had even settled in the air. No one spoke of his husband like that. No one.

Perros’s grin only widened, his voice rasping out between shallow breaths. “I knew you’d have a weakness sooner or later. All men do. Luckily for you, I’m not asking for much to keep that secret. Just a small favor, really. Your sister… Larra, is it? I’ll take her hand in marriage. I’ve heard her dowry is quite… generous.”

Davos’s fingers twitched against the man’s neck, tempted to tighten and end this here and now. Perros was lecherous, far too old for Larra at nineteen. But what choice did he have?

“Fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth, jaw aching from the force of it. “We’ll discuss it further in the morning. I’m too tired to deal with you now.”

Perros clapped him on the shoulder as though they were old friends, grinning like he’d just won a tournament. He turned, strolling toward the door with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable.

He never saw the vase coming.

Davos snatched it off the table—Nymeria’s favorite, a gift from Sunspear. He’d replace it later. Right now, it had a far better purpose. The heavy ceramic shattered against the back of Perros’s skull with a sickening crack.

The old lecher crumpled to the ground, his smug grin wiped clean away. Finally, Davos thought, letting the shards fall from his hand, cutting into his palm. Some justice.

Davos knew Ales had noticed when he slipped back under the covers, but neither of them spoke. Instead, Davos wrapped an arm around him, his hand resting possessively over Alesander’s hip. He buried his face against the back of Ales’ neck, breathing in the clean, soothing scent of pine and dreams. It was enough to chase away the acrid stench of sulfur that still clung to his lungs like a shadow.

I’d do far worse to keep you safe.

Alesander stirred faintly, and in response, Davos pressed a gentle kiss to the faint bruise his teeth had left on his neck the night before. A quiet apology, a vow, a kiss for the sake of it.

“I’m here,” Davos murmured softly, his lips brushing against Alesander’s skin. “Go back to sleep. I’ll chase all the bad dreams away.”

Ales shifted, rolling over to face him. His arms wound around Davos, pulling him close as though he needed to feel him there to believe it. In that moment, Davos felt unworthy of such tenderness.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Alesander. Davos was sure of one thing: he was no angel. He was a devil who’d somehow snuck into heaven, and he’d burn the world to stay there.

“I’m going to marry you, beware…” he mumbled half awake only to hear Ales snickering.

Ah, another blessed night.

The word marriage clung to them now, not as a duty but as a private game. It lingered in half-laughed promises and murmurings between kisses. Davos would steal Ales’ ring and slide it onto his own finger with solemn parody. Ales would call him “husband” when no one could hear, especially after wine or war councils or long days spent pretending they were nothing more than allies of good breeding and better restraint. They laughed, always. It was a joke, wasn’t it? No septon would wed them. No bard would write their song. No lord would toast their union. But in the space between heartbeat and breath, the vow lingered.

There was a freedom in it, quiet and rare. The sort of sweetness only found in things the world said you couldn’t have.

This particular morning was slow, the kind that draped itself over the bed like another layer of blankets, warm and drowsy and made of nothing but breath and skin and the occasional, unhurried heartbeat. The shutters were still closed, letting in only the faintest slivers of sunlight, and the linen sheets had long since been kicked down to their knees.

Davos lay half on top of Alesander, nose pressed into the soft curve of his shoulder, where he’d discovered, months ago now, a freckle shaped like a teardrop. His fingers were curled loosely around Ales’ wrist, thumb brushing the fine pulse there, while his mouth kept peppering kisses behind the ear, against the jaw, to the fingers he pulled to his lips and held close.

He didn’t speak at first. There was no rush. There never was, not with Ales. Just the quiet assurance of knowing the sun would rise and he would still be allowed to love him.

Ales giggled when Davos kissed the center of his palm. He giggled again when Davos pressed his mouth to his forehead with mock solemnity, then to his cheek, then to the side of his throat with the reverence of a man worshiping at an altar.

Shoulder. Kiss. Jaw. Kiss. Hair. Kiss.

Ales let out a half-laugh, trying in vain to squirm away, but Davos only tightened his hold around him.

“You’re not escaping,” Davos murmured against his skin. “I haven’t kissed your entire arm yet.”

Ales rolled his eyes; Davos could feel it, even if he couldn’t see it. He grinned and moved down to kiss the spot just behind Ales’ elbow.

Then his fingers laced with Alesander’s, their hands resting in the space between them on the pillow. Davos kissed his knuckles slowly, one by one, like each one was a vow.

“I’m coming with you.”

Ales stilled, just for a breath. Then he shifted again, not pulling away, but curling a little closer, as if the news made him lighter.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go all the way to the Parchments alone, did you?” he teased. “You’ve been sighing about it for a week. Shoulder down. Eyes heavy. Practically pouting when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

He kissed the pulse at Alesander’s throat.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Davos said. “I thought about showing up at the harbor like some sort of fool from a poem just like when we first got together. But I’m worse than a fool, really.”

He pulled back just enough to see the edge of Ales’ face, to brush his fingers down his cheek.

“I’m in love with you.”

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. So plain. So bare. But the words were already in the air, and Davos didn’t try to take them back. He just smiled and kissed Alesander’s brow.

“However, I’m coming with you under one condition.”

He leaned in again, voice low and warm like summer.

“I want to ask your parents for their blessing. Not to wed, exactly… we both know no septon would bless it. But I’ll find another way. I’ll keep you here, with me, in Godsgrace. As an apprentice. A bookkeeper. An archivist as you are now.” He laughed softly. “The Butcher and The Storyteller. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

He tilted his head, looked up at Alesander's face, and found the shape of love in every line there—the softened brow, the lashes that fluttered like wings, the mouth parted slightly, as if it were still learning how to breathe without trembling. Ales made a breathless, half-choked sound that made Davos kiss him again.

“And if you’re very good, maybe one day you shall be my husband,” Davos whispered against his cheek, teasing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? With the garden and the cats and the three terrible children you keep threatening me with.”

Another giggle. Davos bit back his own grin.

“You’ll wear white for me. Not because you have to, but because you want to. I’ll walk you down to the river and promise to be yours forever.”

He was kissing Ales again now, between each word, as if trying to stitch the fantasy into truth.

“I grew up believing marriage was sacred. A holy vow. Something you didn’t break, not ever. But then I saw the edge of your smile. And I realized the holiest thing I’d ever seen was you.”

He closed his eyes, forehead pressed to Alesander’s.

“Maybe I’ll never have the right to put a ring on your hand or speak those words in a sept… but I want to keep it. I want to fall asleep and wake up with the only person I’ve ever loved.” With a final kiss to Ales’ smile, Davos whispered. “Take me home, love. Take me with you.”

Davos had packed and repacked the same satchel three times before Nymeria finally plucked it out of his hands and set it firmly on the table.

“You’re going to worry the stitching straight off,” she said, giving him the sort of look that she used to stop children him mid-tantrum. It worked frighteningly well. “Sit. Breathe. Perhaps remember how to blink.”

“I’m perfectly calm,” Davos said, absolutely not blinking.

Larra snorted from the doorway. “You’re vibrating.”

He was, in fact, vibrating. Not from fear—he refused to call it that—but from a taut, unfamiliar anticipation that made his palms itch and his chest feel tight beneath his tunic. The holidays at the Parchments. Alesander’s hometown. Alesander’s family. And Alesander himself, who had smiled when Davos had blurted out a proposal in their chambers two weeks prior.

It had not been a proper proposal. Not one fit for a man like Alesander, who deserved gentleness and certainty and thought. Davos intended to correct that. And before he did, he meant to speak with the Parchments’ lord and lady. Or… as near to speaking as he could manage without throwing himself bodily off the ship in panic.

Kiera entered then, brushing dust from her sleeves. “Is he still pretending he isn’t terrified?”

“I am not terrified,” Davos tried again.

All three women ignored him.

Kiera perched beside him on the table, nudging his boot with hers. “So. You want them to like you. That’s good. Normal. Sensible.”

“I don’t require their approval,” Davos muttered, though the knot in his stomach twisted. “I simply want them to know that Ales is cared for. And respected. And safe.”

“And loved,” Larra added lightly, sifting through the items he’d assembled: a polished hair comb, a leather-bound satchel of documents in case the Parchments wished to discuss Ales’ work, and—Seven save him—a set of notes he’d written about their son in an effort to not forget anything important.

Davos froze. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to,” Nymeria said. She reached into her tunic pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a bit of blue linen. “Stand up.”

He obeyed instinctively. Nymeria took his left hand and pressed the bundle into his palm.

When he unwrapped it, the light caught gold—bright, warm, familiar. An intricate band , worn smooth by years of their mother’s hand.

“She would want you to have it,” Nymeria said softly. “And uncle Ryon assured me she would be smug as a cat to know you’re using it for this.”

Davos closed his fingers around the ring, throat thick. “Nymeria—”

“She left it for you, you know,” Larra said with a grin. “We just didn’t tell you until you found someone capable of prying open that tar black heart of yours.”

Kiera laughed and rummaged in her pouch, producing a small purse that jingled far too loudly. “Speaking of prying hearts open… that’s seventy gold pieces for me.”

Nymeria groaned. “You bet on this?”

“Of course we did,” Larra said, radiating triumph. “I told her Alesander would be the one.”

Kiera pointed accusingly. “I said he’d take another ten years!”

“You both wagered on my love life?” Davos demanded, indignant.

All three women spoke at once:

“Yes.”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”

Despite the heat crawling up his neck, he felt… lighter. Ridiculous. Entirely undone by affection he did not know how to manage.

Larra stepped close, straightening the collar of his cloak. “When you’re at the Parchments, do not hover. You loom when you’re nervous.”

“I do not loom.”

“You absolutely loom,” Kiera echoed. “Stand like a man, not a monument. Put weight on your steps.”

“And speak plainly,” Nymeria added. “You adore him. His parents should hear that, even if you only say it in your own roundabout way.”

Davos exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “And if they disapprove?”

“Oh, they will,” Larra said cheerfully. “At first. Then you’ll give them that solemn storm-cloud stare, and they’ll decide you’re the most dependable creature in the realm.”

Kiera clasped his shoulders, squeezing gently. “They will see what we see. A man who loves their son enough to make the journey, enough to try. That’s all anyone ever wants.”

Davos tugged them all into an awkward, too-tight embrace. Larra let out an oof. Nymeria laughed quietly. Kiera hugged him back with both arms. When he released them, Davos slipped the ring safely into his breast pocket, gathered his satchel, and adjusted his cloak.

“Very well,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m off to find Ales. The tide waits for no one.”

He stepped toward the door, heart thrumming in his ribs.

Behind him, Larra called, “Tell him we expect him back in one piece!”

“And happy!” Kiera added.

“And properly proposed to,” Nymeria said with a knowing smile.

Davos shook his head, unable to suppress the fleeting curl of a smile.

Alesander was waiting for him at the docks—bright, unguarded, lantern-hearted Alesander—and for the first time in his life, Davos felt as though the road ahead was not a burden but a promise.

A toast to the beginning of the end; may we face it hand in hand.

[davos-allyrion]

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

“Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

Toron wasn't sure whether he was insulted or amused as he watched Davos leave. Certainly, he was a little affronted by the dig at his sailing skills. Did Allyrion truly think Lord Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, would let his son have so fine a ship if said son was anything less than perfectly capable and competent?

Truthfully though, the Dornish lordling had been right about one thing. Toron had thought he was soft, spoiled. Ripe for picking. He had seen only a pretty face and been blind to the sharp tongue and devious mind it disguised. He had found out about both to his own detriment, all those months ago.

"No wonder you know what a whore looks like; I doubt you've ever felt affection that wasn’t paid for."

Once again, little lord Allyrion had the right of it, at least partially. While Toron did not always have to pay for pleasure, even encounters with women and men both who were desperate for him often felt transactional. Like he was giving up a piece of himself to them, instead of just the sex. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt on equal footing with a partner.

Well, except perhaps the sea. And was that not a cliche? The sailor married to the ocean, who would never take a wife on land because of how drawn he was to the waters. But perhaps there was a little truth to it. The ocean could kill him, mercilessly and painfully. But so long as he kept her and the Drowned God in his hall beneath her waves appeased, Toron could go where he pleased, beholden only to the whims of the winds. In the ocean, in the Drowned God's clutches, there was freedom.

He wondered about the pirates, whether they would be able to find their way to the Drowned God's hall from the belly of a whale. Their blood had spilled over the sides of the ship - not much, but enough to attract one or two sharks brave enough to risk joining the men they wanted to eat. Toron hoped they would be able to find their way. Yes, he had fought against them, but they were his crew once. He had cursed them many times, but there was a certain bond built up over weeks at sea in the confines of a ship, one that was not broken by parting ways.

Toron shifted his weight slightly, glancing down at his calf. The gash he'd sustained in the fight had scabbed over, was almost ready to scar by this point. He'd stopped with the bandages a few weeks ago, when he was reasonably confident the scab wouldn't tear open and bleed anew with a wrong movement.

Truthfully, he was a little disappointed in himself for getting injured in the first place. Helya, the Drowned Priestess who'd taught him to fight, certainly would be. "A foolish mistake, little squid," she'd tell him when he got back to Pyke. He could almost hear her now. "I told you, time and time again, your tunnel vision will be the death of you." Then, despite most likely being in her fifties by now and weighed down by rough woollen robes and matted hair that reached the ground, she would insist on a spar and most likely win. She was the only person on Pyke who could beat Toron these days, but much that was down to her being the one to teach him the tricks he used.

Or so he hoped.

Briefly, he wondered what she would think of Davos. Would she be like him, not see the snake for what it truly was until it struck, or would she realise the danger immediately? At the very least, she might be impressed by his actions on the ship. All that, simply to keep a Starkling alive? Drowned God's sake, Edrick had said the Allyrion dislocated his own thumb to free his hands at one point.

Toron shook his head. Allyrion was most definitely not the pampered lapdog he had intially appeared as. Said lapdog would not last a day on that ship, would not be able to bear even a third of what the lordling supposedly went through.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

So, the little lord was tough and clever. His proposal was tempting, Toron would admit that much. Ever since losing Dorne's support, his father had been pushing for alliances in the North and the Riverlands. However, it was not going well with either. The eldest Tully boy was not as green as he looked, and had set out firm terms with little room for haggling on either side. Dalton had not liked that at all, and had spent most of that voyage back to Pyke in a black mood. Their luck in the North was not much better. Well, it was worse actually, since very few lords worth bothering with were willing to treat with them. They had nothing on offer that the Northerners wanted, be it food, supplies, or hands for marriage. When Benjen had come to him intially, Toron had hoped he could use the goodwill created by saving Lord Cregan's younger brother to build up a rapport with the Starks, or use the Moromonts to push for a trade deal with the Iron Islands. It had worked, to an extent. Benjen had agreed to be all for whatever treaty was created - begrudgingly - while Cregan would hopefully be softened by the words of his younger brother about what the Greyjoy heir had done for him.

However, Dorne was still a huge loss. One that even the most benevolent of deals with the North in favour of the Iron Islands could not quite fill. If Toron managed to win back the Allyrions in the same year as sweetening up the Northerners… Dalton would be astonished. Probably a little angry it was not down to his own actions. But above all, he would be pleased. Pleased that the two greatest sources of stress had been lifted from his shoulders, same as all the Ironborn would be.

Ah, no, he was getting ahead of himself. First, he would have to win over the butcher below deck, the one he had called a Lyseni whore only a few months ago.

Right.

"Make it clever. You have the wit for it"

Toron did not feel witty. Quite frankly, he felt like he was trying to play chess with a cyvasse board. What did the Iron Islands have that Godsgrace could possibly accept? The islands were not rich in resources, which was why their people had turned to raiding in the first place all those centuries ago. Their worth to Westeros came from their naval prowess, and the fear factor their names induced in greenlanders. The original alliance with Godsgrace had come about when pirates roamed the Stepstones, when the Daughters were a threat. Now, they were too busy fighting among themselves to menace the Narrow Sea, and protection had become unnecessary.

So, if not protection - then what could be offered that the Dornish could not do or acquire themselves?

Toron leaned against the sides of the ship, thinking. Iron was abundant on the islands - it was where the names was derived from, after all - as was tin and lead. However, in the absence of raids on Westeros, there were fewer thralls to mine it, and no Ironborn wanted the job. It was too dangerous, too hard. Exporting enough to make a deal with Dorne worth it would kill the few thralls that remained, and shut down the mines if no solution was found.

Briefly, Toron wondered about fish. Ironman's bay was filled with them, cod, black cod, monkfish, skate, icefish, sardines, and many more. The beaches of the islands were often home to crab and lobster traps. However, Dorne had enough exotic foods that it probably wouldn't make for a good offer. If Davos asked specifically after fish, Toron would do his best to provide, but there was also the matter of said fish being the main part of most Ironborn cuisine. If they had to catch for both the Dornish and the islanders, they would exhaust the local population fairly quickly, leaving both regions dependant on migration. No, no, fish were not a viable or stable option.

And that, right there, was the heart of the problem. Whatever was potentially useful, the Ironborn needed for themselves. Wool? What little the scraggly creatures they optimistically called sheep managed produce was needed to make their own clothes. Vegetables? Very little plant life could survive in the thin, stony soil, so fruit, vegetables and grain were usually sourced from elsewhere. Again, what little could be cultivated on the islands, they needed for themselves. They had nothing they could afford to offer in exchange for a deal worthy of anyone's time, which was why raids had become so common in the first place.

Toron felt as though he were missing something quite obvious, but he was too tired and irritable to try and put a name to it.

It was tempting to stay above deck, lie down on the dark wood and watch the stars until his eyelids were too heavy to keep open, but the clouds rolling over the moon discouraged him. So, with a final few words to the men and women camped below the canopy, Toron went below deck.

His aim was to get to his room right at the end of the short corridor, get into his hammock and not think about any of this until the next morning. However, he was distracted by the fact that the door to his first and second mate's room - Gwin and Cerrick - was open.

Not Gwin and Cerrick's room anymore, Toron reminded himself. Rather than share with Davos Allyrion, the two had shacked up with the third mate and the boatswain in the room across. Biting back something that could have been either a sigh or a groan, Toron stopped in the doorway to remind the lordling that the door was going to bang against the wall with every heave of the sea if he didn't close it.

"I'm sure I've told you this before, but this ship is not large. You can hear everything everyone else is up to. And if you don't close that door, everyone on board will be hearing it smack against the wall all night."

divider by @saradika-graphics

[davos-allyrion]

The wood was still warm from where Davos had been working it, tucked into the crook of his arm as he sat on the floor, rasp in hand. He didn’t look up when Toron’s voice came from the doorway. He had no need. That clipped, sardonic edge was familiar now, sharp as salt-wind, and near always tinged with disdain, as if the world had slighted him and he had yet to decide whether to sneer at it or cut it open.

Truth be told, Davos was surprised it had taken him this long to notice the hinges banging.

“The door is open,” he said, voice flat as slate, “because I removed the bottom board. And one of the leather ties.”

His hands didn’t stop moving. He turned the wood in his lap, eyes narrowed, listening more to the grain beneath his rasp than to anything behind him. This one’s a bit softer than the last piece. Might splinter under pressure, he noted, adjusting the angle.

“Not to rob you of your beauty sleep, but for the sake of the wood.”

Davos shifted his weight, the joints of his shoulder aching from hours hunched over in a room far too small for the work he was doing. He could feel Toron’s presence in the doorway like a pressure against his back. A man like that didn’t simply look at a thing. He judged it. Measured its use. Decided if it was worth the salt it cost to keep.

Davos already knew where he fell on that scale.

“One of your men—Kemmett, I believe—has been limping worse with each tide. At first I thought it nothing. A bruise, perhaps. But he flinched when I laid a hand to his ankle. It’s greying. Black, even. None have spoken of it, not even he, but I’ve seen such rot before. If it is not cut when we reach shore, you’ll be laying him to rest in the sea.”

He didn’t know why he cared so much. Kemmett had scowled at him for weeks, muttered things under his breath, spat near his boots when he thought Davos wouldn’t see. Still, Davos had seen the way he clutched the side of the ship when he thought no one was looking, jaw clenched like he was swallowing a scream. No one else had.

The rasp stopped. He blew a thin breath over the surface, wiping the dust from the grain. His jaw tightened. He hated this part. The knowing, the helpless waiting. The slow creep of infection through muscle and bone, the way a man would smile through clenched teeth and swear he was fine until he couldn’t stand at all. Davos had seen it before, too many times. And every time, it looked the same.

“He won’t ask. Your lot seem to think suffering in silence is its own kind of bravery. But someone should be ready. Someone should be able to look him in the eye and say: ‘We’ll make you walk again, if not on two legs, then one.’”

He turned the board again, gauging its fit against the leather straps he’d salvaged earlier. It was no masterwork, but it would hold. In Godsgrace there would be proper tools. Saws that cut clean. Oil, fleece. Perhaps even beeswax for the lining, there would be less chafing that way. He recalled reading that once in a Lyseni treatise on field surgery. One of the few books left in his father’s ruined library that ever spoke plain truth.

“How’s your calf, Greyjoy?”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

Was he… Was he taking apart the door?

Toron inhaled deeply, trying to keep calm. Godsgrace would have someone willing to fix it, surely.

"The door is open because I removed the bottom board. And one of the leather ties."

With a raised eyebrow - a wasted effort since Allyrion was still looking at the door - Toron crossed his arms and replied "All right. And you had to do it at this ungodly hour because…?"

"Not to rob you of your beauty sleep, but for the sake of the wood."

There was a jab in those words somewhere, but Toron, curious now, chose to ignore it in favour of indulging his curiousity. "And what would you need wood for at this, again, highly ungodly hour?"

What Allyrion said next made his blood run cold.

Kemmett was one of the newer members of the crew, a former sheperd who'd lost his sheep and house to a storm a few years ago. With nothing else left, he'd joined up for the sailing lessons Dalton was offering to anyone who wanted to learn, and had been assigned to the Arcane Adventure a year after graduating. He was not the most social of the crew, but certainly the best navigator among them. He was up on deck right now, under the canvas canopy. He'd seemed fine this evening, hanging back as usual.

"Are you sure?" Toron asked, not sure what else there was to say. He'd told the crew to get their wounds seen to after the battle on the pirate's ship, as he always did whenever they happened to run into trouble, but with their current ship healer nursing a lost finger, the only other option was Allyrion -

Ah.

No, he could see quite clearly how this had happened. The crew mistrusted the Dornishman, Toron should have known something like this would happen. He should have insisted, should have told them that if they had a problem with Allyrion then they could consider whether they'd rather lose limbs. He should've -

"He would have said something," was all he could manage, weak even to his own ears. The idea of potentially losing a crew member chilled Toron to the bone, the fear of the loss stronger than any kind of bloodlust.

“He won’t ask. Your lot seem to think suffering in silence is its own kind of bravery. But someone should be ready. Someone should be able to look him in the eye and say: ‘We’ll make you walk again, if not on two legs, then one.’”

He hated to admit it, but Allyrion had a point. There was no place for weakness among the Ironborn, but this? Letting a wound fester would only make you weaker, surely?

"I suppose it's bad enough for amputation already, if you're saying that," Toron said. Allyrion didn't reply, which was all the answer he needed. He turned away, already wondering how to convince Kemmett to let Allyrion look at the wound. He turned away, mind already halfway up on deck when Allyrion called out after him.

“How’s your calf, Greyjoy?”

Why was Allyrion thinking about him, when one of his crew members had gangrene?

"About ready to scar over," Toron told him tersely. "Now, do you have what you need? If so, come on."

[davos-allyrion]

Davos followed in Toron’s wake, the peg clutched in one hand, a satchel of gauze and tinctures swinging at his hip. The Greyjoy walked like a man with a destination but no peace, each step too clipped, too tense. Davos could see the strain in his posture, read the worry he wouldn’t voice.

Toron didn’t want to lose another man.

“I’ll tend to your leg when we’re done here,” Davos said at last, low-voiced, not offering but declaring. “Whether you’ll have it or not.”

The deck stretched out before them, bathed in moonlight, the planks bleached silver, shadows of the sails hanging like tangled nets across the floor. The ship was hushed, the crew strewn in sleep, some in hammocks, others tucked in corners where the wind didn’t reach. Davos scanned the deck until he found Kemmett under the canvas canopy, hunched into himself like a man trying to fold into something smaller than pain.

He looked worse than Davos had feared. His tunic was soaked, the rough grey linen clinging to his chest and arms, dark with sweat. His jaw trembled with tension. Teeth clenched. Fevered breath too shallow to be restful. Even from this distance, Davos could smell the infection on him, sharp and sour and human.

Still, the man had kept his mouth shut. No calls for help. No complaints. No requests. Just silence and rum, like that would ward off the rot.

Kemmett stirred as they neared, dragging himself upright with effort disguised as routine. His hand reached for the flask, and he drank like a man trying to reclaim control, to remind his body who it belonged to. Davos almost pitied the performance. Almost. He’d seen this before, men trying to drink themselves brave.

When Toron stopped at the foot of the hammock, Kemmett straightened. Not recovered. Just braced. Reinforced by pride.

He looked only at his captain.

Of course he did.

Davos paused a few paces behind, close enough to listen, far enough to be forgotten. He’d learned the art of invisibility early on this ship. Quiet made you easy to ignore. But here, it also kept him from being spat on. Or worse. He watched Kemmett closely. The shift in his posture wasn’t health, it was theater. A lie with straight shoulders and clenched fists. That was always the way of it. They would rather die than show weakness in front of him. Especially him.

The foreigner. The whore. The one they never called “healer,” even when they let him stitch their comrades closed. Even when he brought fevered men back from the brink, they’d sooner call it luck, or timing, or prayer.

He’d seen the way they looked at him. Saw it now, in the taut lines of Kemmett’s mouth. They still thought he was ornamental. A southerner with doe eyes and bendable morals.

A pretty lordling with painted hands. Dornish hands. Lyseni hands.

Toron had made his stance clear early on. The crew had followed his lead like hounds after a scent. Davos had given up trying to earn their trust by the second week at sea. He’d not come for friendship. Only for passage. Only to get home.

“Captain,” Kemmett rasped, offering a crooked smirk that barely masked the wince beneath. “Didn’t think I was dying fast enough to bring you running.”

Davos crouched at the edge of the hammock, eyes flicking to the leg beneath the blanket. “You are,” he said, tone light as ever. He made it sound like routine, just another inspection, nothing personal, nothing grim. But beneath the surface, he was already calculating: the angle of the swelling, the heat rising from the skin, the glaze in Kemmett’s eyes.

He was running out of time.

Kemmett finally looked at him, and the sneer was instant. Familiar. Like a reflex.

“You?” he scoffed. “Thought you were a steward. Or a sail-mender. What is it you do again, count beans?”

Davos smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Cut flesh,” he said, calm. “Same as you. I’m just neater.”

Even if they hated him for it.

“You always crawl out in the dead of night, then? Sniffing out the half-dead like some bloody vulture?”

“Only when the dying are too proud to ask for help.”

He could feel the old bitterness stir beneath his ribs. It was always like this, the moment just before the knife. The refusal, the insult, the pride. They’d rather rot than reach for his hand. But Davos wasn’t here to win arguments. He was here to keep bastards like Kemmett breathing.

Even if they cursed his name while he did it.

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

“I’ll tend to your leg when we’re done here. Whether you’ll have it or not.”

"As you like it," Toron gritted out. "But Kemmett first."

The clouds from earlier had passed, bathing the deck in moonlight and revealing countless stars, but Toron was in no mood to appreciate it. Crew members looked up, most half-asleep and likely wondering what in the Drowned God's name their captain was doing on-deck with the Dornishman at this hour. Usually, Toron would have greeted them, maybe offered a quick explanation, but he looked past them to where Kemmett was, hunched over in a far corner under the canopy.

He looked terrible, pale and sweaty, face tense with pain. Despite how shallow his breathing looked, he was quiet. That was what unnerved Toron, how quiet the man was. He looked to be in so much pain, yet he didn't so much as whimper.

How could he not have seen this?

Shaking his head, Toron pushed those thoughts away. He needed a clear mind for this.

As they approached, Kemmett straightened, grip tightening on the flask at his side.

"Captain. Didn't think I was dying fast enough to bring you running."

Allyrion answered that. As he spoke with Kemmett, Toron looked around at the other crew members, who were watching. Seven slept on the deck, and all were awake now.

"Why've ye brought the Dornishman on deck at this hour, Capt'n?" one of them was bold enough to ask. It took Toron a moment to remember who the speaker was. Greydon, of Old Wyk. Fisherman's bastard, no surname.

"He's here to help," Toron replied.

Greydon opened his mouth - presumably to ask another question - but Toron was distracted by a wheezing laugh. It came from Kemmett, who seemed to find whatever Allyrion had just said absolutely hysterical.

"Help? What help? You'll just saw my bloody leg off like every other physick on the continent. Drowned God knows Ragnor would've done it long ago if he hadn't been dealing with his own fingers. I see no reason to let you give out your "help", vulture."

"The only reason you are even at the point of amputation is because you let the wound fester rather than seek treatment," Toron snapped, turning back to Kemmett - who'd gone even paler, if that were possible - and Allyrion, watching with that bloody inscrutable expression of his.

He could feel the eyes of his crew on him. Watching. Waiting.

"As I remember, I told you all to seek treatment after the battle. Wounds fester easily at sea, a fact I am sure everyone here is well aware of. Am I not currently the highest authority on this ship, as her captain?"

Something inside Toron recoiled at the use of his position like that, but he pushed it aside. Normally, he would not bring up his rank like this, preferring camarderie and loyalty over dictatorship, but this was serious. If he did not remind these people who was in charge, their future disobedience would have worse consequences than a festering wound. The Ironborn respected strength. A leader who tolerated dissent was weak.

At his words, the crew looked suitably ashamed. Kemmett was intensely studying the fibers of his hammock.

Allyrion was, as ever, unreadable. However, when he turned back to Kemmett, the other man still shied away.

With a sigh, Toron turned back to them. Looking Kemmett in the eye, he said "Let Allyrion do what he needs to do. This is not a request, but an order. Try to obey this one, please."

Kemmett looked away, but did not move when Davos tried to approach again.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos did not wait for Toron to finish. He knew how these things went—pride, protest, a barked refusal softened into reluctant consent. The shape of it was always the same. By the time the captain issued the command, Davos was already moving, dropping to one knee beside the hammock, sleeves rolled back, hands bare and steady in the pale wash of moonlight.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Not unkind. He pressed his fingers gently to the man’s ankle, where the heat radiated like coal through damp cloth. “Where am I touching?”

Kemmett gave a snort of breath, almost a laugh. “Calf.”

Davos did not smile. He moved his hand higher. Mid-shin. “And now?”

Kemmett’s brow furrowed. “Calf.”

Higher still. Just beneath the knee. “Now?”

“Knee.”

At last.

Davos nodded. Quietly. The rest was worse than he’d feared. Nerves unresponsive below the joint, skin gone dark and waxy in places, damp with that telltale sour rot. The infection had claimed everything from the knee down.

“How long until Godsgrace?” he asked, still watching Kemmett.

It didn’t matter. The answer would be wrong.

He rose to his feet. “I’ll need a saw. Bone, not wood. Honey, garlic. Rum. Milk of the poppy. Towels. Bandages. Rags. And four strong men.” He turned to Toron now, expression grim. “That’s all.”

There were no questions. No arguments. Only action. The crew brought what he asked, though none met his eye. They moved around him like he carried plague. Or death. Perhaps both.

Surgery was no stranger to Davos. He no longer thought of it as healing. It was reckoning. A grim little litany of flesh and bone. Cut here, save this. Burn that, lose less. A prayer offered not to gods, but to the body itself: Hold on. Obey.

It took more than an hour.

When Davos emerged, he was soaked to the elbows in blood. His tunic clung to him, marked with streaks and smears of red like some grim herald. Kemmett was alive. Sleeping in the blood-slick bed Davos had surrendered to him, floating in the poppy's tide, with half a leg left to dream with.

Davos said nothing at first. He wiped the blood from his arms with a rag already ruined, then bent to scrub the floor clean with saltwater and silence.

“He’ll live,” he said at last, not lifting his gaze from the wood beneath him. “But we’ll need to burn what’s left when we reach Godsgrace. I’ve carved out the rot for now, but I’ll not risk what might still be hiding.”

He stood then, and nodded toward the linen-wrapped thing near the railing; Kemmett’s leg, already stiffening, toes curled like dead spiders.

“See to it.”

Then he turned to Toron, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to his frame.

“Now,” Davos said, with the air of command no title but ‘vulture’ ever gave him. “Let me see your calf.”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

divider by @saradika-graphics

Three weeks until Godsgrace. Three weeks.

Toron repeated that to himself as he paced around his cabin, occasionally pausing to curse at Mouser when she almost tripped him up. The ship's cat had been scared by the noises coming from David's room, and had scratched at Toron's door until he relented and let her in. Now, she was attempting to keep pace with him as he walked up and down the narrow confines of the cabin.

Three weeks.

That was much too long. But the problem was that this was the fastest route Toron knew of. He had wanted Allyrion off his ship as soon as possible, and had plotted the most direct route possible. Before, three weeks — should the weather remain reasonable, of course — seemed like a reasonable amount of time to grit his teeth and hope that Allyrion took an unfortunate stumble. Now? Now it was too long. One-and-twenty long days stretched out before him.

One of his father's maps was laid out on his desk, an incredibly detailed rending of the Dornish coastline. The dangerous reefs and rocks had been clearly marked in crimson ink, the waves drawn in a way that made them look like they swelled and leapt as the ship swayed. Toron had marked the current route with blue thread weighted in place with his compass and sextant, while the red thread of an alternative way had been swept to the side in frustration. They were already going as the raven flew, there was simply not a faster way.

Would Kemmett survive three weeks relying on only Davis's tender mercies? Under different circumstances, Toron might have said yes. Kemmett was strong, and had survived much worse. But he was already weakened from letting the infection fester for as long as it had, so the answer seemed uncertain.

It was then that he realised the stifled grunts and cries of pain had stopped. All that could be heard was the lapping of the waves against the hull.

Cautiously, Toron came out of his cabin. At almost that same moment, Davos emerged from his cabin, covered in blood up to his elbows.

The Dornishman was silent at first, scrubbing clean himself and then the floor. Then, as if he could sense that Toron was there "He'll live."

Toron couldn't help but release the breath he'd been holding. Kemmett would live. Davos, however, wasn't done yet. “But we’ll need to burn what’s left when we reach Godsgrace. I’ve carved out the rot for now, but I’ll not risk what might still be hiding.”

Davos then looked up from the wood he was scrubbing, gaze falling on a linen-wrapped bundle. It did not take a genius to figure out that the bundle was what had been amputated.

"See to it." That was what Davos said. Toron looked to Gwin and Cerrick, who had also come out to spectate. Lowering their eyes, they went into the cabin and took the leg, careful to step around Davos.

After they had left, Davos finally looked at him. "Now," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Let me see your calf."

Toron considered insisting on going to his cabin for this — in his opinion — unnecessary examination, but realised it would be an inconvenience to take everything that could be needed there when it was all right here. He closed what remained of the door, and pulled out a barrel that could be used to prop up his leg.

"Examine me as you wish," he said as he sat down. "But can you make it quick? I'm sure that you'll agree it's been a long night."

[davos-allyrion]

The blood was still warm on Davos’s arms when he straightened. The deckboards swayed beneath his knees, as though even the ship were sick of the smell. His tools lay where he’d left them, knives and clamps glinting dull in the lanternlight. He had carved the rot out, but not without cost. The bundle wrapped in linen was proof enough of that.

He flexed his fingers, stiff from the work, and only then looked up at the captain. Gods, the man was pale, caught between curiosity and dread, as if seeing might damn him as surely as doing. Davos wiped his hands again, though the red had already seeped into the cracks of his skin. The smell clung: copper, salt, and tar.

Toron sat and bared his leg without protest. Good. Stubborn as he was, Davos had half expected to wrestle him for it. He crouched, lantern in hand, pressing his thumb to the calf, hard enough to test the flesh. No heat. The skin yielded under his touch, tight but not swollen. He traced the vein, feeling for the telltale pulse of poison creeping upward. Nothing.

“Clean,” he muttered mostly to himself. He lifted the leg higher, twisting it in the dim light, inspecting every scar and scrape. Sailors carried half a hundred marks, each a doorway for rot. But these were shallow, healing. The salve smelled of too much camphor and too little vinegar but it had done its work.

Still, Davos lingered, thumb pressed firm into the muscle until Toron hissed. He watched the twitch of pain with a surgeon’s cold eye. No pity.

Pain meant life. Pain meant there was something left worth fighting for.

Godsgrace shimmered like a mirage when it finally rose into view, white and old beneath the newborn sun, its domes and terraces gleaming over the curve of the river. The ship’s weary timbers seemed to sigh as they neared the docks, as though even they recognized home. Davos stood at the prow, wind in his hair, one hand braced on the rail. Three weeks at sea, and still the sight of those pale sandstone walls struck him in the chest like a prayer.

He had built much of it back into beauty with his own hands—restored the gardens, revived the orchards, turned dry wells into fountains. Godsgrace was meant to be proof that a man could make something worth keeping. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until now.

By the time the gangplank dropped, the keep’s servants and retainers had gathered, their colors bright beneath the desert light. And then came his sisters, all three of them, an army of silk and tears.

“Davos!”
“Gods, look at you—your arm—your face—”
“We thought you dead!”

He let himself be swept into their embrace, their perfumes dizzying after weeks of salt and blood. They hadn’t known. How could they? He’d sent no word while in the pirates’ hands. He had barely expected to live, much less return. Their fussing blurred into something soft, almost holy.

When their attention turned to Toron, it was with grateful eyes.
“You brought him home,” Kiera said thickly. “House Allyrion owes you a debt, captain.”

The crew was ushered into the keep soon after, their sea-worn faces softening as they were fed and shown to rooms. Godsgrace was generous; it always had been. By evening, laughter had returned to its halls.

Davos waited until the last of them had retired before sending for Toron. The message was simple: the greenhouses.

The air there was warm and sweet, heavy with citrus and mint. Lanterns hung among the vines, throwing honeyed light across glass and greenery. Davos stood by the central fountain, sleeves rolled, faint scars on his forearms catching the glow. He didn’t turn when Toron entered, boots heavy on the tile.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked at last.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp in the half-light.
“I said I’d reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. You’ve had weeks to think, captain. Tell me you’ve done more than brood and pace holes in your deck.”

He crossed his arms, studying the man who had saved his life, who had risked storm and sickness and three weeks of peril to drag him home. All after being such a stubborn, prideful pest back in the capital.

Davos was a man of his word.
He only hoped Toron was a man of his worth.

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

Even at night, the Dornish heat never truly died. Toron could feel the sweat forming on his scalp, under his hair, beading at the back of his neck. He was built for chill and sea spray, not the dry heat of the deserts. Out here, he felt as though he was melting like a lit candle.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

He'd done nothing but think about it, trying to think of something the Dornish would want that the Iron Islands could afford to offer. He said none of that, offering only a terse affirmation that, yes, he had been thinking.

“I said I’d reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. You’ve had weeks to think, captain. Tell me you’ve done more than brood and pace holes in your deck.”

"And I have spent those weeks thinking deeply about it," Toron replied, wondering if Davos had been spying on him in his cabin. It was true that he paced while in thought, it was a family trait, but he did not brood, thank you very much. Though brooding and thinking deeply could look very similar to an untrained eye, he supposed.

However, no matter how deeply he thought, no actual answer presented itself. Though he had been telling himself that he would come up with something eventually, Toron realised that now his time was up.

Unbidden, he remembered when he thought that, instead of feeling witty, he felt more like he was playing chess with a cyvasse board. Well, this certainly felt like check. If he couldn't move his pieces into position, the game was over. And Toron did not want to find out what happened if he lost.

"Obviously, I would need to consult with the other heads of our Houses on the Iron Islands, not to mention my father, oh and we absolutely cannot forget the Priests of the Drowned God, they are very important…" Toron started, trying to buy himself more time. Even just a minute.

"Of course, for whatever I think, it is important to remember that those of us from the Iron Islands are a proud lot, and that we have to all have our own seal and stamp on whatever we decide, else we'd be dealing with discontent from our own shores. And that's never a good thing, as I am sure you know…"

Think, think, think. Would there be any loopholes in any other treaties or agreements that could be exploited? No, likely not else his father would have done it long ago. They could not risk alienating the Free Cities by conducting raids there, and anything further east would be too far and too much effort for what they would return with.

Were there any growing threats that he could exploit, tell enough tall tales about that Dorne would be begging for Ironborn protection once again? Toron could not recall a single one, at least not one that could or would want anything to do with Westeros.

When they had landed, Kiera had said the Allyrions owed him a debt. Could he use that to ask for what the Iron born wanted, instead of giving away what they needed?

He remembered how she'd looked at the docks, just barely holding herself together, eyes shining with tears and gratitude. No, no he could not find it within himself to take advantage of that. Were she anyone else, he might have. But he had just returned from saving her cousin, and Davos had saved one of his men. He couldn't do that.

"I…" his shoulders sagged as he trailed off. What now, did he confess that the Ironborn had nothing worth giving that they did not need? Never, his Ironborn pride would never let him. But… but what other options were there? Davos was expecting something, and Toron could not think of even a single thing that might satisfy those expectations without scuttling his own ship, so to speak.

Though he hated the idea more than anything, it might just be easiest to take the loss and retreat. It was not the Ironborn way, but the Ironborn way had almost killed a member of his crew. As such, Toron was not inclined to follow it so soon after. Besides, his father still had the North, would still congratulate him for helping to engineer that victory. He could leave, go back and pretend that the offer was never made… It was not honourable, but when had the Ironborn ever been that?

Ohhhh, this was going to hurt.

"I confess that I could not think of anything you might want that I can provide."

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had been taught that the best mercy one could offer was a sharp blade to the neck.
His father, Ferris, always grumbled that “if you give a drowning man a hand, he’ll pull you down,” and then wondered why his children were so quick to bare their teeth. Even Uncle Ryon used to jest that if you had to shake a foe’s hand, you’d best be ready to break it.
Clemency, in the Allyrion household, was a word written in red.

And yet, Davos had always been too tender-hearted for his bloodline. Compassion sat heavy in his chest at every trial: the mother who stole bread to feed her children, the man who accepted the noose if it meant his family would be fed, the child who stole milk for a stray cat.

Toron Greyjoy was none of those things. He was no poor soul wronged by fate. He had come to Godsgrace puffed with pride, eager to offend, and nearly choked on his own self-importance when the barb missed its mark.
And yet…

Davos bit back a laugh as Toron talked himself in circles. What a pup the wolf had become. The man had been thinking aloud for weeks now, walking in so many circles that Davos feared he might turn the ship around with only the soles of his boots.

"Obviously, I would need to consult with the other heads of our Houses on the Iron Islands, not to mention my father, oh and we absolutely cannot forget the Priests of the Drowned God, they are very important…"

Davos only sat and let him tire himself out. It was almost flattering, how easily he could draw the twitch to Toron’s jaw.

"Of course, for whatever I think, it is important to remember that those of us from the Iron Islands are a proud lot, and that we have to all have our own seal and stamp on whatever we decide, else we'd be dealing with discontent from our own shores. And that's never a good thing, as I am sure you know…"

He held back the quip ‘I have more spies on your shores than your father has wives’. Instead, he twirled the bracelets at his wrist and began to plan the morning’s feast.

Help me understand why I should help you, Greyjoy.

He was ready to dismiss the man with a wave when Toron’s shoulders sagged.
Oh, that was new.

“I confess that I cannot think of anything you might want that I can provide.”

Davos smiled. So many I’s in one sentence. Most Ironborn would rather drown than reach for a hand above the waves, fearing the shame of salvation more than saltwater in their lungs. But Toron, at last, sounded like a leader.

Davos decided to pull him from the depths.

“I appreciate the confession, as it was expected,” he said, clicking his tongue, amused despite himself. “You’re not a bad man, Lord Toron. Not bad at all.”

With a gesture, he beckoned the man to follow and started down through the vineyards. Godsgrace sprawled in mazes of herbs, flowers, and fruit, everything the soil could offer. The castle’s towers loomed behind them, reaching greedily towards heaven. They walked until the sound of running water rose around them, the low murmur of the canals that wound through the city. Digging those feeder canals had been Ferris’ one good idea, Davos thought grudgingly.

“If you follow them down, you’ll find Godsgrace has two main ports: one at Salt Shore, another near Lemonwood,” he said, seating himself on a stone bench to watch the water run. His ancestors had built the aqueducts; Davos had improved them with pound gates, wheels, and siphons. If Toron refused him, he would find another way.

“Both ports are guarded by men I had to hire. Pirates, mostly. There is no loyalty where gold buys it, so I’ve had to be creative.”

He adjusted the double hoops that glinted against his mouth, what they called viper fangs in Dorne, poisoner’s bites across the sea. A small warning that the man you dealt with knew his toxins. He had planned to wear them to bed to keep the punctures open and, he admitted, to unnerve an Ironborn.

“If they steal from me, they lose their fingers. If they try to fool me, an arrow through the hand or foot. If they run…” He smiled thinly. “Well, I imagine you can guess. And yet I worry. Violence keeps a hound leashed, but what happens when the chain breaks?”

The moon was lovely that night. Gods, he had missed home.

“I believe in commitment, Toron. In teaching a man to fish only after sating his hunger. Knowledge is a coin no thief can steal.” He drew a slow breath, remembering Kiera’s voice urging him to see beyond Dalton’s son. Fine. Fine.

“I am violent when I must be, not when it pleases me. So rather than cut your tongue for your insolence in the capital, I’ll make you an offer.”

See, Kiera? I can be polite.

“I want you to work with me.” His eyes studied Toron’s face, waiting for the flash of defiance. “I’ve built schools here—many—and I plan to build more. They draw the young, the eager, the good. People who know our ports better than any pirate gold could hire. But they need guidance. Discipline. The kind only a seasoned sailor could give.”

Former prostitutes, dockhands, wharfingers, orphans, merchants, thieves—people, all of them. Good people, if given a chance.

“What do you say, Lord Toron?” Davos asked, his tone softening. “I believe you’d make a fine teacher.”

[anya-royce]

A Lord, A Look, A Lie

"We'll be going home in a few weeks," Mother announced.

Anya looked up from where she was reading. Ryella's chambers at home had many chairs dotted around for visitors (mostly family) to take a seat on, and she'd worked to make sure that it was the same in the Red Keep.

"Home?" she echoed.

"Yes, home. I dread to think of the state of Runestone with Alester in charge, and I don't want to spend winter away from your father. I've made all the arrangements, and I'll send servants to help you pack." Ryella stepped back from the mirror hanging on the wall, admiring the capelet she'd comissioned from the Head Dressmaker of the Red Keep, Perianne Lannister. It was pretty, in Royce bronze with runes embroidered along the edges in black thread which matched the dyed fur it was trimmed with.

Turning to her daughter, she added "Perhaps we can come back in the spring, if you are well enough. We can bring Henrietta as well, perhaps try and find her a husband?"

Anya nodded once, going back to her book.

The Red Keep's library had exactly one book by Maester Elysar, and it was the most dry read Anya had ever encountered. It was about the plants that used to grow on the Valyrian peninsula. The subject matter was interesting, and given Valyria's connection with magic the herbs mentioned were probably used in spells, but the way Maester Elysar described things seemed to suck out any enjoyment that could be found. It took her a week to get through the tome, and Anya would admit that she used it to send herself to sleep at times.

She looked for codes, letters drawn too thick or odd markings in the margins. Numbers that didn't belong or strange symbols. Even potential odd phrasing that could lead to something else being said.

Nothing.

Even with the little book of codes she'd borrowed, Anya found nothing.

Even the information on the herbs was null, the book described most of them as being entirely exclusive to Valyria. As such, they probably went extinct in the Doom and even then, as far as she knew, King Jaehaerys's ban on sailing to the ruins was still in place.

To make things worse, she couldn't go back to Davos and ask about these things, since he'd left court just before she finally accepted that there were no hidden codes in the herb book. According to gossip, he was going back to Godsgrace to see how it was holding up. It took weeks to travel anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, it had taken a month to travel from Runestone to King's landing with her mother after all. But weeks turned to months, and as time reluctantly dragged itself by, Anya grew impatient. She wrote many letters asking for advice, but burned them before she could send them in a moment of weakness. She needed help, but did not want to give away how desperate she was. Would Davos retract his offer to take her to Godsgrace one day if he knew she could not even do this one thing?

Anya did not know, and did not like the risks involved in finding out. She would wait, try and figure something out on her own back in Runestone.

Alright, so that hadn't exactly worked out.

The freeze was unpredicted. Overnight, the roads in and out of King's Landing became clogged with snow. Storms raged in the seas around Westeros, so the harbours were crowded with ships. Driftmark and Dragonstone were accessable due to proximity, but it was risky.

Mother was restless, stuck in the capital relying on ravens from Selyse and Gunthor to keep her somewhat sane. Anya read them after her mother, finding them on her desk. It was rude to snoop, but she knew for a fact that her mother would tell her nothing if something went wrong. The updates were short, scrawled in tiny letters to try and convey as much as possible without weighing down the ravens too much.

Willam had elected to remain at Runestone while Henrietta went to stay with her Shett cousins. Arwen and Alester had had a fight and were not on speaking terms currently. One farm suffering a spectacularly bad harvest before the freeze was recieving special aid, much to the displeasure of their neighbours. Father was suffering with a chesty cough, but still insisted on going for walks every morning with his hounds. A guard had been found asleep on duty and Gunthor had fired him, alongside levelling the unfortunate man with a hefty fine.

Anya hungered for these scraps as a starving dog does for bones. She had thought being isolated while sick was lonely, but it felt especially jarring to be surrounded by people and yet still locked out of the loop on her own family.

Still, there was one bright spot, and that was the return of Davos Allyrion. He'd gotten back to court just two weeks before the freeze set in. Anya had tried not to act too excited - her mother still had absolutely no idea about any of this, and she was trying to avoid reeking of desperation - but she found herself looking for him, wondering when they would meet again.

Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, Anya looked to the window and wondered if it was time to go to bed after she'd finished what she was currently doing. She'd snuck into the kitchens during the Hour of the Eel, and it was now the Hour of Ghosts.

Initially, she had come looking for herbs to soothe coughs and chest pain, intending on finding a way to send her own raven to Runestone with a vial of her concoction and a note explaining what it was. Then, after gathering them, she had decided she might as well make the mixture, since she was in the closest she would get to a perfect place for it.

Peppermint, ginger, tumeric and marshmallow root. All fairly common remedies and easy to find in a kitchen. She was frustrated that she hadn't been able to figure out how to do more, but she would do what she could.

The herbs had steeped for five-and-twenty minutes, and Anya planned to leave them for five minutes more, just to make sure they were truly done. She would then sift the remains of the herbs out of the mixture, and pour what was left into bottles small enough for a raven to carry.

"Go to the maester in the rookery tomorrow," she told herself as she wrote it on the same sheet of paper that contained the recipe for the tea. It was an innocent enough reminder, and her mother had been nagging her to take care of her health. It would be easy enough to ask for something outside of the rookery, and while the maester was distracted she would attach a vial and a note to a raven before sending it to Runestone. If the maester questioned it, she would simply say that one escaped.

Whether she could get away with a repeat performance was a question for the future, but Anya's head was already filling with increasingly more elaborate schemes.

One in particular - a convulted story about a young lordling womiting blood in the training yard - she lingered on, but before she could properly follow that string of thought, a peculiar chill pricked up the hairs on the back of her neck.

She was being watched.

Whirling around to face her observer - wooden spoon in hand ready to be pointed threateningly - Anya wasn't sure how she would explain what she was doing to a cook, or a maid, or even a noble looking for a late-night snack. However, this wasn't necessary, as she recognised who she saw in the doorway.

"Davos?" she asked, before cursing her lack of decorum. "I mean, Lord Allyrion?"

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had never cared for King’s Landing. It wasn’t only the stench—though gods, it stank of piss and soot and too many lies—but the press of it, the weight. Power clung to every stone, coiled in alleyways, muttered beneath breath. Cruelty was its own currency here, passed hand to hand as freely as copper stars.

And yet, somehow, it chafed less when Alesander was with him.

Ales made it bearable. He always had.

Davos could sleep through a storm at sea so long as Ales was beside him, breath warm at his throat, limbs tangled like roots. The stink of the streets faded when he pressed his face to Ales’s curls. Even the ghosts that haunted his dreams held their tongues when Ales whispered goodnight.

He’d never been one for poetry. He hadn’t the heart for it. But sometimes he wondered if Nymeria had the right of it. When she’d told him she meant to marry Anders, he’d asked her why. She’d smiled, soft and exasperated, and said, “Because if I don’t, I’ll go mad wanting to shout it at everyone that he’s mine. That I’m his.”

He had not understood her then. He did now.

No septon would ever bless their union. Not in the sight of the Seven, nor under any gods still listening. But Ales had loved him like a husband from the first kiss, and Davos, in turn, had spent every waking hour trying to build a future the man deserved.

A future that would make Ales proud.

The Sandstep Scholars Program had begun as a dream. A mad one. Free instruction, open to all, from Dorne to the Dreadfort. For children born in brothels and castles alike. Davos had poured every coin he could spare into the fire, and every name he’d earned into the wind, just to keep the dream aloft.

It was dangerous. Seditious, some said. A world where knowledge was no longer hoarded by lords and maesters. A world where smallfolk were taught letters before they were taught to maim.

To Davos, ignorance was the realm’s true rot. If war was fire, then ignorance was the spark that always lit the pyre.

When his informants whispered that the little Royce girl had stayed behind at the Red Keep, Davos hadn’t waited. He’d left Ales with a kiss and a scroll tucked into his coat, just in case.

And now… here she was.

A girl in a quiet kitchen, her face lit by the dying glow of the hearth. Sweat glistened at her brow. A pot simmered low beside her, herbs steeping in the broth. Her hands were ink-stained and callused, and she gripped a wooden spoon like it were a blade.

He watched her from the shadows for a moment. Something stirred in him, low and aching. Not pride. Not grief. Something gentler. The look of someone trying not to care too much, failing, and aching all the same.

She reminded him of himself. More than she ought to. And yet—

The gods had never meant for him to have children, and Davos had long since made his peace with that. He would not ask for what nature would not grant to him and Ales. Yet if ever he dared picture a daughter, she might look something like this: sharp, stubborn, and trying so hard to heal the world with what little it gave her.

When she turned and spotted him, her eyes went wide.

"Davos?" she blurted. “I mean, lord Allyrion?”

He smiled gently, already shaking his head.

“No need for titles,” he said, voice low. “Not between the likes of us. Davos will do.”

He stepped closer, careful not to startle her, and drew a scroll from the inner fold of his coat. He set it down beside her scribbled notes.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he added, as he set the scroll down beside her notes. “I thought you might be the sort of girl to appreciate this.”

The wax bore the sigil of House Allyrion, the Hand of The Gods, as henna stained as his own, but the words within were older than any name. Truth has no master, and knowledge no single steward.

“The Sandstep Scholars Program,” he explained, nodding toward the scroll. “It’s… well, it’s the first of its kind. And I’d like you to be part of it.”

He paused. Watched her.

“You don’t have to decide now. But I think you already know the answer.” A soft breath of a smile played at his lips. “You’re already doing the work.”

The scroll read as it follows:

To all those of noble mind and curious spirit, let it be known:

In a realm long governed by steel and silence, where knowledge has too oft been hoarded like gold and truth buried beneath banners and blood, there arises now a lantern in the dark.

The Sandstep Scholars Program, born in the sunbaked halls of Godsgrace and watered by the mercy of its founder, seeks to bring the gift of learning to all children of Westeros, regardless of name, coin, or station. Its purpose is to extend instruction beyond the traditional bounds of birth and wealth, offering free schooling to all children, whether born in noble halls or humble homes.

This program is centered in Godsgrace, where former brothels have been converted into halls of learning. Here, maesters, scribes, and septons serve as teachers, funded through the personal support of Lord Davos Allyrion.

In addition to the central school, a corps of traveling instructors, known as “Sand Maesters,” journey across towns and villages. They bring scrolls and books and teach reading, writing, arithmetic, history, and practical skills to children wherever they gather.

Priority is given to orphans and children of uncertain parentage, including those born in brothels or camps. Noble families are encouraged to send their wards to learn alongside commoners, promoting shared knowledge across social lines.

Curriculum Overview

Let no child go without the tools to think, speak, and survive. The following disciplines are taught across the realm, adapted to need and region:

I. Literacy & Language

Common Tongue Mastery: Reading, writing, oration, and practical documents (fables, trade slips, and legal forms).

Tongues of Trade: Braavosi and Volantene dialects offered in coastal towns.

The Runes of the Rhoynar: Instruction in ancient Dornish scripts to rekindle lost heritage.

II. History

True Histories of the Realm: Accounts from rebel quills, peasant tales, and banned books.

Legacy of the Rhoynar: The voyage of Princess Nymeria, the cities of rivers, and the myths of water-magic.

The Targaryen Doctrine: An examination of fire, dragons, and the rise of power.

Women of War & Wisdom: From Queen Visenya to Princess Meria, studied without veil or varnish.

III. Civic Knowledge & Law

The Laws of the Realm: Crown law and local rule alike.

Coin & Contract: Practical lessons in counting coin, reading deals, and spotting deception.

Justice & Ethics: Mock trials, debates, and essays on right and wrong in a flawed world.

IV. Mathematics & Economy

From Numbers to Kingdoms: Arithmetic for trade, farming, and finance.

Geometry & Engineering: Foundations for bridges, homes, ships, and siegecraft.

The Economics of Power: How silver feeds soldiers, and how debts raze dynasties.

V. Natural Sciences

Astronomy & Navigation: Star-lore and wayfinding, for sailors and farmers alike.

Herb-lore & Healing: Midwifery, mending, and the making of poultices.

Maps of the Known World: Geography, climates, and hidden riches of the land.

Farming in Truth: Crop rotation, composting, and waterwise growing.

VI. Combat Ethics & Self-Defense (For youths of ten years and more)

Discipline of the Blade: Sword, spear, and bow; not for glory, but for guard.

Enduring the Siege: How to last when the walls close in.

The Weight of Killing: True stories of war’s toll, shared so none may strike blindly.

VII. Philosophy & Inquiry

The Art of Reason: Rhetoric, logic, and the courage to question.

The Many Gods: A fair survey of the Faith, the Flame, the Old Ones, the Drowned, and more, taught not to command belief, but to sharpen discernment.

VIII. Electives & the Soul’s Refinement

Art, Music, and Movement: Drawing, storytelling, traditional dance, and the freedom to imagine.

The Sandstep Scholars Program belongs not to kings nor keeps, but to the future.

May this knowledge serve all who seek it.

[anya-royce]

“The Sandstep Scholars Program. It’s… well, it’s the first of its kind. And I’d like you to be part of it.”

Anya picked up the scroll, using the knife she'd set aside after cutting the herbs to open it. She read as she unfurled it, and then started again when she'd reached the end.

“You don’t have to decide now. But I think you already know the answer. You’re already doing the work.”

At those words, Anya looked up at Davos again.

"I… I would love to be a part of this. More than anything. What you've built, what you intend - it sounds amazing."

She turned back to the tea, lifting the sieve from the pot and setting it to one side.

"I will have to convince my mother, of course. But no matter what happens, my answer remains yes. I'm…" Anya paused, trying to find the right word. "I'm honored that you're offering this to me."

[davos-allyrion]

The Red Keep’s library was a solemn sort of place, all vaulted ceilings and slanted morning light falling across the endless ranks of tomes. Davos had always preferred the libraries of Dorne; the air there was filled with chalk dust and laughter, not the graveyard hush of a room that believed it knew everything already. But if he was to win Lady Ryella Royce’s approval, this was the right ground for it.

He waited by the long table of oak, hands folded before him, the rolled parchment of the Sandstep Scholars Program lying in plain sight. The light caught on the bronze threads of his coat, he hadn’t worn his usual sand-colored silks but something more formal, a concession to the courtly chill that hung in the Red Keep like smoke.

When Ryella entered, she brought the scent of cold air and lavender oil with her. Her daughter followed a few steps behind, quiet as a page turned too carefully.

“Lord Allyrion,” Ryella greeted, her voice gracious but cautious. “You asked for an audience?”

“I did, my lady,” Davos said, inclining his head. “And I thank you for granting it.”

They took their seats. Anya settled beside her mother, fingers clasped in her lap. Davos could tell she’d been warned to speak only if spoken to. He offered her a small smile, one meant to reassure rather than coax, and then turned his attention to Ryella.

“I won’t waste your time, my lady. I’ve come to speak of your daughter’s education.”

Ryella’s expression didn’t change, but her posture did—shoulders straighter, chin lifted. A soldier through and through. “Anya’s education has been properly overseen by the maester assigned to Runestone, and I’ve seen to her reading myself. If this is about that program you mentioned in the kitchens…”

“It is,” Davos said gently. “And if I may, I’d like to speak of it plainly.” He leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the table. “Your daughter has a mind made for inquiry. She asks the questions most never think to form, and she doesn’t stop at the first answer. She reminds me,” he went on, softer now, “of myself, once. The sort of child who looks at the world and thinks: there must be more.”

He thought, briefly, of himself as a boy, stealing scraps of parchment from his father’s desk to copy herbal diagrams, desperate to make sense of the world that had never bothered to make sense of him. No one had believed he’d amount to anything but a hound; certainly not a lord, certainly not a scholar. It had taken one person’s faith, his uncle Ryon’s, to kindle the spark that changed his life.

He would not let that spark die in another. Not if he could help it.

‘That kind of curiosity deserves cultivation, not confinement.”

Ryella’s fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, smoothing invisible wrinkles. “You think I confine her?”

“I think you protect her,” Davos said. “And I don’t fault you for that. But protection can become its own sort of cage if you’re not careful.”

Her jaw tightened at that. “You don’t know what it means to almost lose a child, Lord Allyrion.”

Davos leaned forward, voice softening. “You’d be surprised.”

Ryella’s gaze softened, though her voice did not. “My daughter is intelligent, yes. But she’s also delicate. You must understand, Lord Allyrion. Anya was born too soon. She tires easily, falls ill more often than her siblings. The air of the capital does her no favors, but I can hardly imagine that the heat of Dorne would either.”

“I understand,” He clasped his hands. “My cousin, Kiera, was much the same as a child. Couldn’t keep her food down, couldn’t keep her strength. My uncle thought she’d die before she saw her tenth nameday. But she didn’t. Do you know what saved her?”

Ryella tilted her head slightly, skeptical. “Pray tell.”

“Change,” Davos said simply. “A change in air, in food, in rhythm. We moved her from the coast to the heart of Godsgrace, where she learned to rise with the sun and sleep when the heat fell. The maids nursed her, taught her, fed her what the healers called folly—dates, mint, milk of the sandgoat—but it worked. Kiera is stronger now than any of us.”

He smiled faintly. “She runs one of our schools for girls now. You’d like her, I think. Stubborn as any Royce.”

Ryella’s lips pressed together in something between suspicion and amusement. “A Dornishman comparing my kin to his own, how bold.”

“Truth rarely flatters,” Davos replied, the smile deepening.

Anya had gone still beside her mother, listening.

Ryella drew a slow breath. “You speak kindly, Lord Allyrion. But you must see why I’d hesitate. I’ve already buried too many. Half my kin before their time. I won’t let my daughter join them for the sake of—of experimentation.”

Her voice caught slightly on the last word. Davos heard the grief beneath the strength and felt it like a familiar ache.

Memory had a cruel habit of pressing a knife to the throat, demanding that one exhume the dead.

“You have my word that she’ll not be an experiment. I’m a healer before I’m anything else. I’d oversee her treatment myself, design a regimen for her strength and constitution. She’d not be in any danger. And if you wish, she could board not at the main academy, but with my sisters, at the only women’s school. It’s a quiet place. Shaded courtyards, gardens, classrooms open to the breeze. My sisters and cousins run it, they’re all healers and scholars themselves. No men allowed, not even me.”

Ryella blinked at that. “Truly?”

Davos nodded. “Truly. The girls who study there call it the ‘hidden garden.’ It’s where we send those who need care as much as they need learning. If Anya came, she’d have both.”

He let that linger in the air between them, the hush of the library wrapping the three of them in amber stillness.

After a long moment, Ryella said softly, “And if she falls ill again?”

“Then she’ll have the best healers in Dorne at her bedside,” Davos nodded. “And I’ll make certain she’s never without a draught or poultice that suits her needs. You have my oath on that.”

Ryella looked at him, truly looked, as if measuring every word for hidden barbs. Then, at last, she exhaled.

“A trial semester, you said?”

“Yes,” Davos replied. “Just that. A season in Godsgrace. If it does her harm, she returns home. If it does her good…”

He trailed off, letting the hope finish the thought for him.

Ryella’s fingers drummed lightly on the table. Her eyes flicked toward her daughter, who sat watching them both with that careful, wondering expression Davos had come to recognize.

“Well, my dear,” Ryella said at last, her tone softer than before, “you’ve heard Lord Allyrion’s offer. Do you have anything to say to him?”

[davos-allyrion]

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

“Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

Toron wasn't sure whether he was insulted or amused as he watched Davos leave. Certainly, he was a little affronted by the dig at his sailing skills. Did Allyrion truly think Lord Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, would let his son have so fine a ship if said son was anything less than perfectly capable and competent?

Truthfully though, the Dornish lordling had been right about one thing. Toron had thought he was soft, spoiled. Ripe for picking. He had seen only a pretty face and been blind to the sharp tongue and devious mind it disguised. He had found out about both to his own detriment, all those months ago.

"No wonder you know what a whore looks like; I doubt you've ever felt affection that wasn’t paid for."

Once again, little lord Allyrion had the right of it, at least partially. While Toron did not always have to pay for pleasure, even encounters with women and men both who were desperate for him often felt transactional. Like he was giving up a piece of himself to them, instead of just the sex. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt on equal footing with a partner.

Well, except perhaps the sea. And was that not a cliche? The sailor married to the ocean, who would never take a wife on land because of how drawn he was to the waters. But perhaps there was a little truth to it. The ocean could kill him, mercilessly and painfully. But so long as he kept her and the Drowned God in his hall beneath her waves appeased, Toron could go where he pleased, beholden only to the whims of the winds. In the ocean, in the Drowned God's clutches, there was freedom.

He wondered about the pirates, whether they would be able to find their way to the Drowned God's hall from the belly of a whale. Their blood had spilled over the sides of the ship - not much, but enough to attract one or two sharks brave enough to risk joining the men they wanted to eat. Toron hoped they would be able to find their way. Yes, he had fought against them, but they were his crew once. He had cursed them many times, but there was a certain bond built up over weeks at sea in the confines of a ship, one that was not broken by parting ways.

Toron shifted his weight slightly, glancing down at his calf. The gash he'd sustained in the fight had scabbed over, was almost ready to scar by this point. He'd stopped with the bandages a few weeks ago, when he was reasonably confident the scab wouldn't tear open and bleed anew with a wrong movement.

Truthfully, he was a little disappointed in himself for getting injured in the first place. Helya, the Drowned Priestess who'd taught him to fight, certainly would be. "A foolish mistake, little squid," she'd tell him when he got back to Pyke. He could almost hear her now. "I told you, time and time again, your tunnel vision will be the death of you." Then, despite most likely being in her fifties by now and weighed down by rough woollen robes and matted hair that reached the ground, she would insist on a spar and most likely win. She was the only person on Pyke who could beat Toron these days, but much that was down to her being the one to teach him the tricks he used.

Or so he hoped.

Briefly, he wondered what she would think of Davos. Would she be like him, not see the snake for what it truly was until it struck, or would she realise the danger immediately? At the very least, she might be impressed by his actions on the ship. All that, simply to keep a Starkling alive? Drowned God's sake, Edrick had said the Allyrion dislocated his own thumb to free his hands at one point.

Toron shook his head. Allyrion was most definitely not the pampered lapdog he had intially appeared as. Said lapdog would not last a day on that ship, would not be able to bear even a third of what the lordling supposedly went through.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

So, the little lord was tough and clever. His proposal was tempting, Toron would admit that much. Ever since losing Dorne's support, his father had been pushing for alliances in the North and the Riverlands. However, it was not going well with either. The eldest Tully boy was not as green as he looked, and had set out firm terms with little room for haggling on either side. Dalton had not liked that at all, and had spent most of that voyage back to Pyke in a black mood. Their luck in the North was not much better. Well, it was worse actually, since very few lords worth bothering with were willing to treat with them. They had nothing on offer that the Northerners wanted, be it food, supplies, or hands for marriage. When Benjen had come to him intially, Toron had hoped he could use the goodwill created by saving Lord Cregan's younger brother to build up a rapport with the Starks, or use the Moromonts to push for a trade deal with the Iron Islands. It had worked, to an extent. Benjen had agreed to be all for whatever treaty was created - begrudgingly - while Cregan would hopefully be softened by the words of his younger brother about what the Greyjoy heir had done for him.

However, Dorne was still a huge loss. One that even the most benevolent of deals with the North in favour of the Iron Islands could not quite fill. If Toron managed to win back the Allyrions in the same year as sweetening up the Northerners… Dalton would be astonished. Probably a little angry it was not down to his own actions. But above all, he would be pleased. Pleased that the two greatest sources of stress had been lifted from his shoulders, same as all the Ironborn would be.

Ah, no, he was getting ahead of himself. First, he would have to win over the butcher below deck, the one he had called a Lyseni whore only a few months ago.

Right.

"Make it clever. You have the wit for it"

Toron did not feel witty. Quite frankly, he felt like he was trying to play chess with a cyvasse board. What did the Iron Islands have that Godsgrace could possibly accept? The islands were not rich in resources, which was why their people had turned to raiding in the first place all those centuries ago. Their worth to Westeros came from their naval prowess, and the fear factor their names induced in greenlanders. The original alliance with Godsgrace had come about when pirates roamed the Stepstones, when the Daughters were a threat. Now, they were too busy fighting among themselves to menace the Narrow Sea, and protection had become unnecessary.

So, if not protection - then what could be offered that the Dornish could not do or acquire themselves?

Toron leaned against the sides of the ship, thinking. Iron was abundant on the islands - it was where the names was derived from, after all - as was tin and lead. However, in the absence of raids on Westeros, there were fewer thralls to mine it, and no Ironborn wanted the job. It was too dangerous, too hard. Exporting enough to make a deal with Dorne worth it would kill the few thralls that remained, and shut down the mines if no solution was found.

Briefly, Toron wondered about fish. Ironman's bay was filled with them, cod, black cod, monkfish, skate, icefish, sardines, and many more. The beaches of the islands were often home to crab and lobster traps. However, Dorne had enough exotic foods that it probably wouldn't make for a good offer. If Davos asked specifically after fish, Toron would do his best to provide, but there was also the matter of said fish being the main part of most Ironborn cuisine. If they had to catch for both the Dornish and the islanders, they would exhaust the local population fairly quickly, leaving both regions dependant on migration. No, no, fish were not a viable or stable option.

And that, right there, was the heart of the problem. Whatever was potentially useful, the Ironborn needed for themselves. Wool? What little the scraggly creatures they optimistically called sheep managed produce was needed to make their own clothes. Vegetables? Very little plant life could survive in the thin, stony soil, so fruit, vegetables and grain were usually sourced from elsewhere. Again, what little could be cultivated on the islands, they needed for themselves. They had nothing they could afford to offer in exchange for a deal worthy of anyone's time, which was why raids had become so common in the first place.

Toron felt as though he were missing something quite obvious, but he was too tired and irritable to try and put a name to it.

It was tempting to stay above deck, lie down on the dark wood and watch the stars until his eyelids were too heavy to keep open, but the clouds rolling over the moon discouraged him. So, with a final few words to the men and women camped below the canopy, Toron went below deck.

His aim was to get to his room right at the end of the short corridor, get into his hammock and not think about any of this until the next morning. However, he was distracted by the fact that the door to his first and second mate's room - Gwin and Cerrick - was open.

Not Gwin and Cerrick's room anymore, Toron reminded himself. Rather than share with Davos Allyrion, the two had shacked up with the third mate and the boatswain in the room across. Biting back something that could have been either a sigh or a groan, Toron stopped in the doorway to remind the lordling that the door was going to bang against the wall with every heave of the sea if he didn't close it.

"I'm sure I've told you this before, but this ship is not large. You can hear everything everyone else is up to. And if you don't close that door, everyone on board will be hearing it smack against the wall all night."

divider by @saradika-graphics

[davos-allyrion]

The wood was still warm from where Davos had been working it, tucked into the crook of his arm as he sat on the floor, rasp in hand. He didn’t look up when Toron’s voice came from the doorway. He had no need. That clipped, sardonic edge was familiar now, sharp as salt-wind, and near always tinged with disdain, as if the world had slighted him and he had yet to decide whether to sneer at it or cut it open.

Truth be told, Davos was surprised it had taken him this long to notice the hinges banging.

“The door is open,” he said, voice flat as slate, “because I removed the bottom board. And one of the leather ties.”

His hands didn’t stop moving. He turned the wood in his lap, eyes narrowed, listening more to the grain beneath his rasp than to anything behind him. This one’s a bit softer than the last piece. Might splinter under pressure, he noted, adjusting the angle.

“Not to rob you of your beauty sleep, but for the sake of the wood.”

Davos shifted his weight, the joints of his shoulder aching from hours hunched over in a room far too small for the work he was doing. He could feel Toron’s presence in the doorway like a pressure against his back. A man like that didn’t simply look at a thing. He judged it. Measured its use. Decided if it was worth the salt it cost to keep.

Davos already knew where he fell on that scale.

“One of your men—Kemmett, I believe—has been limping worse with each tide. At first I thought it nothing. A bruise, perhaps. But he flinched when I laid a hand to his ankle. It’s greying. Black, even. None have spoken of it, not even he, but I’ve seen such rot before. If it is not cut when we reach shore, you’ll be laying him to rest in the sea.”

He didn’t know why he cared so much. Kemmett had scowled at him for weeks, muttered things under his breath, spat near his boots when he thought Davos wouldn’t see. Still, Davos had seen the way he clutched the side of the ship when he thought no one was looking, jaw clenched like he was swallowing a scream. No one else had.

The rasp stopped. He blew a thin breath over the surface, wiping the dust from the grain. His jaw tightened. He hated this part. The knowing, the helpless waiting. The slow creep of infection through muscle and bone, the way a man would smile through clenched teeth and swear he was fine until he couldn’t stand at all. Davos had seen it before, too many times. And every time, it looked the same.

“He won’t ask. Your lot seem to think suffering in silence is its own kind of bravery. But someone should be ready. Someone should be able to look him in the eye and say: ‘We’ll make you walk again, if not on two legs, then one.’”

He turned the board again, gauging its fit against the leather straps he’d salvaged earlier. It was no masterwork, but it would hold. In Godsgrace there would be proper tools. Saws that cut clean. Oil, fleece. Perhaps even beeswax for the lining, there would be less chafing that way. He recalled reading that once in a Lyseni treatise on field surgery. One of the few books left in his father’s ruined library that ever spoke plain truth.

“How’s your calf, Greyjoy?”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

Was he… Was he taking apart the door?

Toron inhaled deeply, trying to keep calm. Godsgrace would have someone willing to fix it, surely.

"The door is open because I removed the bottom board. And one of the leather ties."

With a raised eyebrow - a wasted effort since Allyrion was still looking at the door - Toron crossed his arms and replied "All right. And you had to do it at this ungodly hour because…?"

"Not to rob you of your beauty sleep, but for the sake of the wood."

There was a jab in those words somewhere, but Toron, curious now, chose to ignore it in favour of indulging his curiousity. "And what would you need wood for at this, again, highly ungodly hour?"

What Allyrion said next made his blood run cold.

Kemmett was one of the newer members of the crew, a former sheperd who'd lost his sheep and house to a storm a few years ago. With nothing else left, he'd joined up for the sailing lessons Dalton was offering to anyone who wanted to learn, and had been assigned to the Arcane Adventure a year after graduating. He was not the most social of the crew, but certainly the best navigator among them. He was up on deck right now, under the canvas canopy. He'd seemed fine this evening, hanging back as usual.

"Are you sure?" Toron asked, not sure what else there was to say. He'd told the crew to get their wounds seen to after the battle on the pirate's ship, as he always did whenever they happened to run into trouble, but with their current ship healer nursing a lost finger, the only other option was Allyrion -

Ah.

No, he could see quite clearly how this had happened. The crew mistrusted the Dornishman, Toron should have known something like this would happen. He should have insisted, should have told them that if they had a problem with Allyrion then they could consider whether they'd rather lose limbs. He should've -

"He would have said something," was all he could manage, weak even to his own ears. The idea of potentially losing a crew member chilled Toron to the bone, the fear of the loss stronger than any kind of bloodlust.

“He won’t ask. Your lot seem to think suffering in silence is its own kind of bravery. But someone should be ready. Someone should be able to look him in the eye and say: ‘We’ll make you walk again, if not on two legs, then one.’”

He hated to admit it, but Allyrion had a point. There was no place for weakness among the Ironborn, but this? Letting a wound fester would only make you weaker, surely?

"I suppose it's bad enough for amputation already, if you're saying that," Toron said. Allyrion didn't reply, which was all the answer he needed. He turned away, already wondering how to convince Kemmett to let Allyrion look at the wound. He turned away, mind already halfway up on deck when Allyrion called out after him.

“How’s your calf, Greyjoy?”

Why was Allyrion thinking about him, when one of his crew members had gangrene?

"About ready to scar over," Toron told him tersely. "Now, do you have what you need? If so, come on."

[davos-allyrion]

Davos followed in Toron’s wake, the peg clutched in one hand, a satchel of gauze and tinctures swinging at his hip. The Greyjoy walked like a man with a destination but no peace, each step too clipped, too tense. Davos could see the strain in his posture, read the worry he wouldn’t voice.

Toron didn’t want to lose another man.

“I’ll tend to your leg when we’re done here,” Davos said at last, low-voiced, not offering but declaring. “Whether you’ll have it or not.”

The deck stretched out before them, bathed in moonlight, the planks bleached silver, shadows of the sails hanging like tangled nets across the floor. The ship was hushed, the crew strewn in sleep, some in hammocks, others tucked in corners where the wind didn’t reach. Davos scanned the deck until he found Kemmett under the canvas canopy, hunched into himself like a man trying to fold into something smaller than pain.

He looked worse than Davos had feared. His tunic was soaked, the rough grey linen clinging to his chest and arms, dark with sweat. His jaw trembled with tension. Teeth clenched. Fevered breath too shallow to be restful. Even from this distance, Davos could smell the infection on him, sharp and sour and human.

Still, the man had kept his mouth shut. No calls for help. No complaints. No requests. Just silence and rum, like that would ward off the rot.

Kemmett stirred as they neared, dragging himself upright with effort disguised as routine. His hand reached for the flask, and he drank like a man trying to reclaim control, to remind his body who it belonged to. Davos almost pitied the performance. Almost. He’d seen this before, men trying to drink themselves brave.

When Toron stopped at the foot of the hammock, Kemmett straightened. Not recovered. Just braced. Reinforced by pride.

He looked only at his captain.

Of course he did.

Davos paused a few paces behind, close enough to listen, far enough to be forgotten. He’d learned the art of invisibility early on this ship. Quiet made you easy to ignore. But here, it also kept him from being spat on. Or worse. He watched Kemmett closely. The shift in his posture wasn’t health, it was theater. A lie with straight shoulders and clenched fists. That was always the way of it. They would rather die than show weakness in front of him. Especially him.

The foreigner. The whore. The one they never called “healer,” even when they let him stitch their comrades closed. Even when he brought fevered men back from the brink, they’d sooner call it luck, or timing, or prayer.

He’d seen the way they looked at him. Saw it now, in the taut lines of Kemmett’s mouth. They still thought he was ornamental. A southerner with doe eyes and bendable morals.

A pretty lordling with painted hands. Dornish hands. Lyseni hands.

Toron had made his stance clear early on. The crew had followed his lead like hounds after a scent. Davos had given up trying to earn their trust by the second week at sea. He’d not come for friendship. Only for passage. Only to get home.

“Captain,” Kemmett rasped, offering a crooked smirk that barely masked the wince beneath. “Didn’t think I was dying fast enough to bring you running.”

Davos crouched at the edge of the hammock, eyes flicking to the leg beneath the blanket. “You are,” he said, tone light as ever. He made it sound like routine, just another inspection, nothing personal, nothing grim. But beneath the surface, he was already calculating: the angle of the swelling, the heat rising from the skin, the glaze in Kemmett’s eyes.

He was running out of time.

Kemmett finally looked at him, and the sneer was instant. Familiar. Like a reflex.

“You?” he scoffed. “Thought you were a steward. Or a sail-mender. What is it you do again, count beans?”

Davos smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Cut flesh,” he said, calm. “Same as you. I’m just neater.”

Even if they hated him for it.

“You always crawl out in the dead of night, then? Sniffing out the half-dead like some bloody vulture?”

“Only when the dying are too proud to ask for help.”

He could feel the old bitterness stir beneath his ribs. It was always like this, the moment just before the knife. The refusal, the insult, the pride. They’d rather rot than reach for his hand. But Davos wasn’t here to win arguments. He was here to keep bastards like Kemmett breathing.

Even if they cursed his name while he did it.

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

“I’ll tend to your leg when we’re done here. Whether you’ll have it or not.”

"As you like it," Toron gritted out. "But Kemmett first."

The clouds from earlier had passed, bathing the deck in moonlight and revealing countless stars, but Toron was in no mood to appreciate it. Crew members looked up, most half-asleep and likely wondering what in the Drowned God's name their captain was doing on-deck with the Dornishman at this hour. Usually, Toron would have greeted them, maybe offered a quick explanation, but he looked past them to where Kemmett was, hunched over in a far corner under the canopy.

He looked terrible, pale and sweaty, face tense with pain. Despite how shallow his breathing looked, he was quiet. That was what unnerved Toron, how quiet the man was. He looked to be in so much pain, yet he didn't so much as whimper.

How could he not have seen this?

Shaking his head, Toron pushed those thoughts away. He needed a clear mind for this.

As they approached, Kemmett straightened, grip tightening on the flask at his side.

"Captain. Didn't think I was dying fast enough to bring you running."

Allyrion answered that. As he spoke with Kemmett, Toron looked around at the other crew members, who were watching. Seven slept on the deck, and all were awake now.

"Why've ye brought the Dornishman on deck at this hour, Capt'n?" one of them was bold enough to ask. It took Toron a moment to remember who the speaker was. Greydon, of Old Wyk. Fisherman's bastard, no surname.

"He's here to help," Toron replied.

Greydon opened his mouth - presumably to ask another question - but Toron was distracted by a wheezing laugh. It came from Kemmett, who seemed to find whatever Allyrion had just said absolutely hysterical.

"Help? What help? You'll just saw my bloody leg off like every other physick on the continent. Drowned God knows Ragnor would've done it long ago if he hadn't been dealing with his own fingers. I see no reason to let you give out your "help", vulture."

"The only reason you are even at the point of amputation is because you let the wound fester rather than seek treatment," Toron snapped, turning back to Kemmett - who'd gone even paler, if that were possible - and Allyrion, watching with that bloody inscrutable expression of his.

He could feel the eyes of his crew on him. Watching. Waiting.

"As I remember, I told you all to seek treatment after the battle. Wounds fester easily at sea, a fact I am sure everyone here is well aware of. Am I not currently the highest authority on this ship, as her captain?"

Something inside Toron recoiled at the use of his position like that, but he pushed it aside. Normally, he would not bring up his rank like this, preferring camarderie and loyalty over dictatorship, but this was serious. If he did not remind these people who was in charge, their future disobedience would have worse consequences than a festering wound. The Ironborn respected strength. A leader who tolerated dissent was weak.

At his words, the crew looked suitably ashamed. Kemmett was intensely studying the fibers of his hammock.

Allyrion was, as ever, unreadable. However, when he turned back to Kemmett, the other man still shied away.

With a sigh, Toron turned back to them. Looking Kemmett in the eye, he said "Let Allyrion do what he needs to do. This is not a request, but an order. Try to obey this one, please."

Kemmett looked away, but did not move when Davos tried to approach again.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos did not wait for Toron to finish. He knew how these things went—pride, protest, a barked refusal softened into reluctant consent. The shape of it was always the same. By the time the captain issued the command, Davos was already moving, dropping to one knee beside the hammock, sleeves rolled back, hands bare and steady in the pale wash of moonlight.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Not unkind. He pressed his fingers gently to the man’s ankle, where the heat radiated like coal through damp cloth. “Where am I touching?”

Kemmett gave a snort of breath, almost a laugh. “Calf.”

Davos did not smile. He moved his hand higher. Mid-shin. “And now?”

Kemmett’s brow furrowed. “Calf.”

Higher still. Just beneath the knee. “Now?”

“Knee.”

At last.

Davos nodded. Quietly. The rest was worse than he’d feared. Nerves unresponsive below the joint, skin gone dark and waxy in places, damp with that telltale sour rot. The infection had claimed everything from the knee down.

“How long until Godsgrace?” he asked, still watching Kemmett.

It didn’t matter. The answer would be wrong.

He rose to his feet. “I’ll need a saw. Bone, not wood. Honey, garlic. Rum. Milk of the poppy. Towels. Bandages. Rags. And four strong men.” He turned to Toron now, expression grim. “That’s all.”

There were no questions. No arguments. Only action. The crew brought what he asked, though none met his eye. They moved around him like he carried plague. Or death. Perhaps both.

Surgery was no stranger to Davos. He no longer thought of it as healing. It was reckoning. A grim little litany of flesh and bone. Cut here, save this. Burn that, lose less. A prayer offered not to gods, but to the body itself: Hold on. Obey.

It took more than an hour.

When Davos emerged, he was soaked to the elbows in blood. His tunic clung to him, marked with streaks and smears of red like some grim herald. Kemmett was alive. Sleeping in the blood-slick bed Davos had surrendered to him, floating in the poppy's tide, with half a leg left to dream with.

Davos said nothing at first. He wiped the blood from his arms with a rag already ruined, then bent to scrub the floor clean with saltwater and silence.

“He’ll live,” he said at last, not lifting his gaze from the wood beneath him. “But we’ll need to burn what’s left when we reach Godsgrace. I’ve carved out the rot for now, but I’ll not risk what might still be hiding.”

He stood then, and nodded toward the linen-wrapped thing near the railing; Kemmett’s leg, already stiffening, toes curled like dead spiders.

“See to it.”

Then he turned to Toron, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to his frame.

“Now,” Davos said, with the air of command no title but ‘vulture’ ever gave him. “Let me see your calf.”

[toron-heirtotheironislands]

divider by @saradika-graphics

Three weeks until Godsgrace. Three weeks.

Toron repeated that to himself as he paced around his cabin, occasionally pausing to curse at Mouser when she almost tripped him up. The ship's cat had been scared by the noises coming from David's room, and had scratched at Toron's door until he relented and let her in. Now, she was attempting to keep pace with him as he walked up and down the narrow confines of the cabin.

Three weeks.

That was much too long. But the problem was that this was the fastest route Toron knew of. He had wanted Allyrion off his ship as soon as possible, and had plotted the most direct route possible. Before, three weeks — should the weather remain reasonable, of course — seemed like a reasonable amount of time to grit his teeth and hope that Allyrion took an unfortunate stumble. Now? Now it was too long. One-and-twenty long days stretched out before him.

One of his father's maps was laid out on his desk, an incredibly detailed rending of the Dornish coastline. The dangerous reefs and rocks had been clearly marked in crimson ink, the waves drawn in a way that made them look like they swelled and leapt as the ship swayed. Toron had marked the current route with blue thread weighted in place with his compass and sextant, while the red thread of an alternative way had been swept to the side in frustration. They were already going as the raven flew, there was simply not a faster way.

Would Kemmett survive three weeks relying on only Davis's tender mercies? Under different circumstances, Toron might have said yes. Kemmett was strong, and had survived much worse. But he was already weakened from letting the infection fester for as long as it had, so the answer seemed uncertain.

It was then that he realised the stifled grunts and cries of pain had stopped. All that could be heard was the lapping of the waves against the hull.

Cautiously, Toron came out of his cabin. At almost that same moment, Davos emerged from his cabin, covered in blood up to his elbows.

The Dornishman was silent at first, scrubbing clean himself and then the floor. Then, as if he could sense that Toron was there "He'll live."

Toron couldn't help but release the breath he'd been holding. Kemmett would live. Davos, however, wasn't done yet. “But we’ll need to burn what’s left when we reach Godsgrace. I’ve carved out the rot for now, but I’ll not risk what might still be hiding.”

Davos then looked up from the wood he was scrubbing, gaze falling on a linen-wrapped bundle. It did not take a genius to figure out that the bundle was what had been amputated.

"See to it." That was what Davos said. Toron looked to Gwin and Cerrick, who had also come out to spectate. Lowering their eyes, they went into the cabin and took the leg, careful to step around Davos.

After they had left, Davos finally looked at him. "Now," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Let me see your calf."

Toron considered insisting on going to his cabin for this — in his opinion — unnecessary examination, but realised it would be an inconvenience to take everything that could be needed there when it was all right here. He closed what remained of the door, and pulled out a barrel that could be used to prop up his leg.

"Examine me as you wish," he said as he sat down. "But can you make it quick? I'm sure that you'll agree it's been a long night."

[davos-allyrion]

The blood was still warm on Davos’s arms when he straightened. The deckboards swayed beneath his knees, as though even the ship were sick of the smell. His tools lay where he’d left them, knives and clamps glinting dull in the lanternlight. He had carved the rot out, but not without cost. The bundle wrapped in linen was proof enough of that.

He flexed his fingers, stiff from the work, and only then looked up at the captain. Gods, the man was pale, caught between curiosity and dread, as if seeing might damn him as surely as doing. Davos wiped his hands again, though the red had already seeped into the cracks of his skin. The smell clung: copper, salt, and tar.

Toron sat and bared his leg without protest. Good. Stubborn as he was, Davos had half expected to wrestle him for it. He crouched, lantern in hand, pressing his thumb to the calf, hard enough to test the flesh. No heat. The skin yielded under his touch, tight but not swollen. He traced the vein, feeling for the telltale pulse of poison creeping upward. Nothing.

“Clean,” he muttered mostly to himself. He lifted the leg higher, twisting it in the dim light, inspecting every scar and scrape. Sailors carried half a hundred marks, each a doorway for rot. But these were shallow, healing. The salve smelled of too much camphor and too little vinegar but it had done its work.

Still, Davos lingered, thumb pressed firm into the muscle until Toron hissed. He watched the twitch of pain with a surgeon’s cold eye. No pity.

Pain meant life. Pain meant there was something left worth fighting for.

Godsgrace shimmered like a mirage when it finally rose into view, white and old beneath the newborn sun, its domes and terraces gleaming over the curve of the river. The ship’s weary timbers seemed to sigh as they neared the docks, as though even they recognized home. Davos stood at the prow, wind in his hair, one hand braced on the rail. Three weeks at sea, and still the sight of those pale sandstone walls struck him in the chest like a prayer.

He had built much of it back into beauty with his own hands—restored the gardens, revived the orchards, turned dry wells into fountains. Godsgrace was meant to be proof that a man could make something worth keeping. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until now.

By the time the gangplank dropped, the keep’s servants and retainers had gathered, their colors bright beneath the desert light. And then came his sisters, all three of them, an army of silk and tears.

“Davos!”
“Gods, look at you—your arm—your face—”
“We thought you dead!”

He let himself be swept into their embrace, their perfumes dizzying after weeks of salt and blood. They hadn’t known. How could they? He’d sent no word while in the pirates’ hands. He had barely expected to live, much less return. Their fussing blurred into something soft, almost holy.

When their attention turned to Toron, it was with grateful eyes.
“You brought him home,” Kiera said thickly. “House Allyrion owes you a debt, captain.”

The crew was ushered into the keep soon after, their sea-worn faces softening as they were fed and shown to rooms. Godsgrace was generous; it always had been. By evening, laughter had returned to its halls.

Davos waited until the last of them had retired before sending for Toron. The message was simple: the greenhouses.

The air there was warm and sweet, heavy with citrus and mint. Lanterns hung among the vines, throwing honeyed light across glass and greenery. Davos stood by the central fountain, sleeves rolled, faint scars on his forearms catching the glow. He didn’t turn when Toron entered, boots heavy on the tile.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked at last.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp in the half-light.
“I said I’d reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. You’ve had weeks to think, captain. Tell me you’ve done more than brood and pace holes in your deck.”

He crossed his arms, studying the man who had saved his life, who had risked storm and sickness and three weeks of peril to drag him home. All after being such a stubborn, prideful pest back in the capital.

Davos was a man of his word.
He only hoped Toron was a man of his worth.

[davos-allyrion]

𓁼 LOVE IN TIMES OF INTRUSION 𓁼

(A starter with @doranyronwood)

The wine was already poured.

Davos hadn’t meant to start drinking without him. He hadn’t meant to start drinking at all, really. But the wait had begun to gnaw. The candles, once tall and proud, were starting to droop. Their wax dripped like sweat down their gilded stems. Steam curled from the bath, heady with orange blossom and rosemary oil, and the scent mingled with the warmth of the room. Cloying. Intimate. Unmistakable.

He had crushed rose petals along the bed sheets like the hero of some ridiculous Essosi novel, and set out sugared almonds and those little green fruits Ales liked best, the name of which Davos could never remember. He’d even tied the damned ribbons on the linens, knots he’d fumbled with for ten full minutes before gritting his teeth and starting over. Every detail was chosen with a desperation that tried not to look like desperation.

Because this night wasn’t a gift. It was a plea.

Ales had been everywhere but here. Since they came to King’s Landing, he’d been passed around like the last goblet of wine in a closing tavern. Can you help with this? Can you do that? As if not even being high-born stopped others right to borrow him. Never mind his time. Never mind his mind. Never mind that he wasn’t theirs to summon.

Davos had reached his limit somewhere between watching Ales untangle Lady Crakehall’s embroidery silks and watching Lord Franklyn treat him like a squire too dim for a sword. So Davos made a decision. He would offer Ales a place at his side during the council; his clerk, if they needed a name. A role close enough to burnish every whispered rumor, bold enough to mean: mine.

Anyone who dared to ask favors would have to talk to Davos’ sword first.

He had dressed with care. The pale blue tunic with the fine collar, the one Ales said matched his eyes, though Ales said everything matched his eyes, because Ales said anything to make him melt.

A quiet knock stirred him like a slap.

He moved too quickly, chest rising with something too eager to be called hope and too proud to admit it. The door creaked open and—

Doran.

Of all the seven hells, it had to be Doran.

His oldest friend stood framed by the doorway, and the words Davos had gathered in his chest like an offering—you’re late, did they keep you long, I’ll kill them all if they did—turned to ash behind his teeth.

Behind Davos, the candlelight flickered over petals and silks, over soft things not meant for the eyes of men like them. Behind him, the room reeked of desire, of careful preparation, of love, unspoken and now laid bare.

Doran’s gaze shifted, just barely.

Davos didn’t move. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or curse. His fingers itched at his sides.

He had never cared what anyone thought of him. Not the court, not the Queen, not the lords who pretended not to know. But this was Doran.

And Davos hated that he cared.

That Doran might look at him differently now, the thought that he might pity him—or worse, disapprove—made Davos’ throat go tight.

So he stepped back, ever so slightly, just enough to block the view into the room.

The doorframe felt like a shield, thin and flimsy though it was. Candlelight licked at his heels. He clenched one hand tight, nails biting palm, the other still gripping the edge of the door like it might keep him anchored.

“It’s good seeing you… was there something you needed?” Davos asked, finally. His voice came out cooler than he felt. “I’m afraid I can’t be a proper host at the moment. You see, I’ve just…”

A beat. His mind scrabbled for something sharp, something that might deflect Doran’s gaze from the truth blooming behind him.

“…committed murder. Quite the mess, I’m afraid. Blood on the linens and everything. Poor timing on your part.”

[doranyronwood]

(Continuing thread with @davos-allyrion )

Doran’s mind was a twisted mess of overlapping thoughts that contested each other. You need to go home! These people are not yours and you are not theirs. And then the next round would start. If I go home, I will die alone and without children. There’s only one woman who lights a spark in my heart and she’s here. On and on his thoughts turned and shifted; stinging him as if he’d stuck his brain in a bush of nettles. He knew he couldn’t leave, quite literally, because of the ice. But he was starting to feel like a caged desert dog, restless and ready to strike. Only there was no one to strike here! The thought only made his already sour mood worse.

At home, Doran found it entertaining to challenge political opponents to duels. It broke up the monotony of everyday life but it also helped him ferret out plots. Seeing the lead man of your shoddy political gamble get his head knocked in tended to plant a seed of doubt on future endeavors. Doran didn’t waste his time trying to pull threads and see wrinkles in the cloth. He liked to poke the seamstress and see who reacted to the scream far better. It cut down on time and annoyance anyway. Here, it was the opposite. Everyone was scheming to some extent it felt like. Everyone but him. He could hear his mother in his ear even now, telling him he should be more involved. You have the brains for it, use them! He simply didn’t want to.

Exhaling heavily, he was still amazed to watch the smoke puff from his mouth. The ice and snow were almost worth it for the view. At night the gardens were enchanting, a million diamonds glimmered around him reflecting the light of the moon. Doran had walked at least half of the castle but he always seemed to end up back here. He sat still and frigid on a small bench. He admired the stars and tried to talk himself out of doing something crazy. He wanted to sit here and think of sweet Vaella only. To be so happily blissful and full of joy at the magic of winter and budding affection. But that wasn’t him. He had stained and rough edges, jagged pieces of himself that would make themselves known. He carefully planned his life around keeping himself in check. He needed spontaneity, to be challenged, to feel truly alive.

King’s Landing just didn’t interest him very much. The people were mostly hard to stomach as they had their own ideas about Dorne. And that was the problem. Doran needed to be surrounded by people like him or he was going to combust. So he stood, fixed his collar and began to walk towards the room of the only real friend he had here. He was almost sad to part from the cold, clear night. Everything shimmered from above to below, he wished Vaella could see it.

The walk to Davos’ room was uneventful and reminded him how much he hated the hallways here. A pang of homesickness shot through him as he thought of the halls waiting for him at Yronwood. Then he stood outside of the door far longer than appropriate trying to pull himself together but eventually he raised a shaky hand and knocked.

The door answered much faster than Doran had anticipated. It was quite late after all but then this was Davos he was talking about. The man’s expression upon seeing him was nearly comical. His face morphed from joy and anticipation into shock and wariness with a speed at which would’ve been funny under any other circumstances. Doran took a calculated look away from his friend for just a heartbeat to scope the scene. The flickering candlelight didn’t illuminate much but he knew an intimate setting when he saw one. The tense look on Davos’ face when his eyes moved back confirmed it.

He genuinely wanted to say something, the silence stretching between them growing long, but he didn’t know how to proceed. This entire— He’d really stepped in it now and he was already not having a great go of it. Instead he watched as Davos moved closer to cut him further off from the room. His first few sentences were lost to him, Doran was too busy trying to tell his mind to chill the fuck out.

So it wasn’t until his friend uttered, “You see, I’ve just committed murder. Quite the mess, I’m afraid. Blood on the linens and everything. Poor timing on your part.” that his ears caught up with his brain.

“You’ve just committed murder?” He mindlessly and completely dumbfounded said the words back to Davos.

Then he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Davos, I know you’re lying to me.” He held up his hands in a mock surrender before his friend could protest.

“I don’t care why, though by the looks of it I should leave soon.” Then he winked at the man before he could stop himself. “If you were murdering someone that would explain the rumors I keep hearing about you.”

Doran had more supposed dirt on his friend in two weeks in King’s landing than a lifelong friendship had ever given him. It did tickle him a little bit but mostly it was abhorrent. Was there a courtly job where they just made shit up all day? Could he possibly get the position? He could think of way better rumors to spread.

“You know there’s a group that swears you’re throwing “peasants” into the ‘rush when no one’s looking? Don’t worry, I told them you definitely weren’t wasting your time on throwing common folk in there.”

He was maybe dragging this out just a bit. Davos looked so antsy it was hard to imagine the amount of self control he was using to not tell him to fuck off. But ultimately he really did not care who was coming to see his friend. It wasn’t any of his business and it wouldn’t matter if it was his business. They were friends and for him that wasn’t a title given lightly or taken back easily. He wanted the stressed expression that had settled over the man’s face to disappear.

“To be honest with you, I need to speak with you. Not now, but immediately. This damned castle is driving me mad. If I don’t share air with a like minded person very soon, I’m going to become rather reckless and a poor guest.”

He hoped Davos understood what he meant. Not that he would steal or any other usual crimes. It meant he was about to start dueling men in the throne room and he was kinda itching to see what they were made of.

“Call on me soon Davos or I’ll be forced to call on you again.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos was going to kill him.

No, wait. He was going to kill himself first, then Doran, then maybe Harrold just to keep the rhythm going. He’d opened the door expecting soft kisses and a warmer welcome. Ales’s hands on his jaw. A laugh caught in his collar. Instead, he got this: a Dorne-born fever dream with snowflakes clinging to his lashes and a scowl that meant trouble.

“You’ve just committed murder?”

Gods save him.

Davos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Twice. Possibly three times if you don’t shut up.”

And then Doran smirked. Davos had to inhale through his teeth to keep from exploding. He knew that look. He feared that look. It was the one Doran always wore right before one of his ideas took root and blossomed into a full-grown catastrophe.

“You know there’s a group that swears you’re throwing peasants into the ‘rush?”

Davos snorted before he could stop himself. “Peasants? Please. I respect the smallfolk too much to waste their bodies on these spoiled Northern waters. If I were throwing anyone into the ‘rush, it’d be lords. The self-important ones. The ones who say Dorne like it tastes foul. The ones who ask if I wear perfumes because I’m from the South.” He mimed a toss. “Those go in. Splash.”

But then Doran’s face shifted. Serious, sharp, that unnerving stillness he rarely wore.

“To be honest with you, I need to speak with you. Not now, but immediately. This damned castle is driving me mad. If I don’t share air with a like minded person very soon, I’m going to become rather reckless and a poor guest.”

Something inside Davos stilled. No, not stilled—tightened. Like a knot being pulled in his chest. He didn’t want to ask what was wrong. He didn’t want to care. But he did. Of course he did. That was the curse of having friends. He wanted to laugh. To throttle him. To tell him he was being an insufferable, ill-timed toddler. He wanted to scream. Or dissolve into Ales’s arms and melt into one being who could feel only half this mortification.

Instead, Davos swallowed hard and said, low and dangerous, “Stop being ridiculous.”

Doran opened his mouth. Davos raised a single hand, henna stained palm out.

“Not. One. Word.”

Then, because there was no other way to survive with dignity, Davos stepped aside, jaw clenched and shoulders taut as a bowstring. “Get inside before I change my mind and throw you into the ‘rush.”

Davos turned on his heel and launched into damage control.

He crossed the room in swift, surgical strides, blowing out candles with sharp huffs, their tiny flames dying with whispers of protest. He yanked the fur coverlet from the foot of the bed and flung it over the painstakingly arranged rose petals with theatrical disdain.

“If you ask about the flowers,” he said, voice low and deadly, “I will stab you.”

He turned. “If you ask about the candles, you’ll be burned alive.”

He moved toward the bath. “If you ask about the bath, I will drown you in it.”

And then, as if he hadn’t just issued three very specific death threats, Davos dragged out the low table with the calm of a man one breath away from declaring war, sat with forced grace, and poured hibiscus tea into two earthenware cups. The scent—citrusy, floral, earthy—spilled into the air. It helped. A little.

He kicked out the opposite chair with the side of his boot and fixed Doran with a stare that could cauterize wounds. A host in the ruins of his own evening.

He slouched back into his chair, the mask sliding back over his face. Fingers braced tight on the arms, like he needed to anchor himself to something.

“Now. Tell me what idiotic thing you’re thinking before it eats you alive.”

[doranyronwood]

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

Davos’ theatrics were welcome and as expressive as ever as he was ‘welcomed’ inside.

“If you ask about the flowers, I will stab you.”

He need not worry about Doran caring about flowers, the mere fact that he mentioned them at all seemed at odds with himself.

“If you ask about the candles, you will be burned alive.”

Doran hardly contained the snicker that wanted to escape as his companion moved towards the bath.

“If you ask about the bath, I will drown you in it.”

Without a care in the world for the threats levied his way, Doran joined Davos at the small table he pulled out. He pretended not to notice how tense and uncomfortable his friend looked in his own seat. A practiced look of indifference gracing his face sent a twinge of sadness through Doran. He suddenly wished they were back out on the trail, under the wide open skies of Dorne. Back where Doran knew exactly where he fit, where his days were never idle. Where his friend never looked as if he were afraid to see him.

“Now, tell me about whatever idiotic thing you’re thinking about before it eats you alive.”

Davos’ annoyed voice cut through Doran’s homesickness for a moment and he managed to pull a grin up to his face.

“I believe I’m in love.”

The silence in the room after his statement was amplified by the crackling and popping of wood in the fireplace. Sparks and ash fighting to escape all while Doran’s words hung heavy in the air. He was sure Davos was attempting to figure out how in the seven hells love had anything to do with being a poor house guest. But it had everything to do with it. He couldn’t pound Arthor Celtigar into the ground and he couldn’t play the ridiculous politics of the capital. It left him feeling restless and aggravated. He wanted a good fight but he was here where everyone battled with words.

He decided to save his friend the trouble of working out the statement. “With Vaella Darklyn and I’m going to ask her to be mine.”

His hand gripped the table thinking of those stupid noblemen in the tavern, slandering his loves’ name throughout fleabottom. Celtigar had promised to see it handled, but what good was his word? The man hadn’t handled it in the first place, why should Doran have faith in the next time?

“The only issue is, I can’t stand the slander being spread about her.” He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “If we were in Dorne, I’d just challenge them. I could do it at court and humiliate them or better yet, in the yard and maim them. But I don’t know how to exist in this blasted place.”

King’s landing with all its curtsying ladies and sneering lords, each scheming the second you step out of earshot. Not to say, it was all terrible but Doran hadn’t intended to stay this long. With its positives came a host of problems he couldn’t solve.

“I actually was contemplating dueling in the main courtyard, throne room, somewhere big and spectacular.” He grinned again at the foolish idea. “But I figured since I know at least one person capable of causing a little chaos, I’d call on you first.”

Now he might truly stab him as this was as dumb as an idea as dueling the King’s consort but what was to be done otherwise?

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had half a mind to laugh at Doran’s idea of dueling in the throne room, but the humor caught in his throat. That was Doran through and through—loud, reckless, brash, and yet utterly sincere. He envied it sometimes, that boldness. The world bent differently for men like him. Davos had never been built that way. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together in front of him, letting the weight of his friend’s words hang for a moment before speaking.

“You’d get yourself clapped in irons before your blade even cleared its scabbard,” he said at last, voice level, almost dry. “That’s what would happen if you tried your Dornish honor here. They wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of steel. They’d smile, they’d whisper, and they’d gut her with words sharper than any blade.” His eyes flicked to the fire, the flames gnawing at the logs as though they were paper-thin. “No, if you want it handled, let me do it. That’s what I’m good at. I’ll find who’s spreading it, I’ll cut the rot out before it spreads further. Quiet. Clean. No duels in the yard, no spectacle in front of the court. Leave it to me.”

He saw the way Doran’s hand curled into the table, the tension in his jaw. It wasn’t easy for his friend to sit still and trust words over fists. Gods, he knew that look well. How many years had he seen it before? Doran was like an older brother to him, the one who had always seen beyond the butcher of Godsgrace. The bond between them ran deep, and in this moment Davos felt it pressing against him, demanding honesty.

So he added, quietly, “Invite me to the wedding, when it comes. I’ll be there. You’ll have one man at least in the crowd who wants to see you happy.”

The words felt heavier than he expected, almost like a confession in themselves. And perhaps they were. For all of Doran’s reckless openness, he deserved something real in return.

His fingers tapped once against the wood, then stilled. He hesitated, weighing silence against the truth, but silence felt too much like cowardice, and hadn’t Doran always told him to stand firm? He exhaled, slow and deliberate, before letting the words fall.

“You’re not the only one,” Davos murmured. “In love, I mean.” His lips quirked into something that might have been a smile if there weren’t so much ache in it. “Alesander Penrose. Ales. He’s been working as my archivist these last six moons. Always with his ink-stained hands and gold spun hair. He… he sees me. And gods save me, I let him.”

The confession sat raw in his chest, and he stared into the fire to avoid Doran’s gaze. The crackle of burning wood filled the silence between them. “So there it is. We’re both fucked. You with your lady, me with my Ales. Love makes fools of us all.”

His hand tightened around the edge of the table. For once, it felt almost good to be a fool.

“You should meet him someday. He’s…” too good for me, more than I’ll ever deserve. “Beautiful, kind, sharp as a blade… and good with one too. I’d wager he could even best you in a duel.”

[davos-allyrion]

🂱 WE SHOULD JUST KISS LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ꫂ ၴႅ༘

A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

A love letter for @alesanderpenrose

Challenge: Write a scene that takes place during the Storybook Masquerade.

The snowstorm had turned King’s Landing into a gilded cage, and the Red Keep into a stifling menagerie. Every highborn soul trapped within the city had flown like crows to the warmth of court, and Davos found himself the prize they all sought to pick at—traders importuning him for safe passage and silvered routes, petty lords praising perfumes or murmuring of private commissions, and altogether too many ambitious mothers dangling their daughters before him like bait on barbed hooks.
He was dying.

The meeting with the Reachman had been long, fragrant, and joyless. The stench of bergamot still clung to his sleeves, though the man himself had left an hour past. He had spoken of tariffs and florals as though they were scripture, and now came another, a gouty man swollen with pride and garnets, nattering on about his daughter’s “admiration for Dornish refinement” and her keen interest in Davos’ business acumen.

Davos studied the man’s sagging jowls and imagined upturning his goblet and letting the wine spill down his thinning hair. The image gave him a flash of bitter amusement, gone as quickly as it came. His body remained, seated in a chamber heavy with candle smoke and false laughter, but his thoughts had wandered elsewhere.
To Alesander.

Ales, who had gone off with Harrold and Joffrey as if it were nothing, as if Davos would not begin to unravel with each hour they were apart. They had only shared a single kiss that morning—chaste and sleepy, stolen before the bread had been broken—and now Davos was expected to hold court as though he was not starving for the sound of Ales’ laughter, for the brush of his hand beneath a feast table, for the weight of him curled against his side like a seal against stone.

He hated these people for making him pretend otherwise. Every simpering noble face became another mask he had to endure, another suffocating reminder that the world expected him to barter and smile, never to burn. They wanted his attention, his coin, his cleverness. But Ales wanted him, only him, and that was the thing that undid Davos most. That was the hook in his chest, pulling, tugging, always toward the boy who could unravel him with a glance.

Perianne circled him like a hawk circles prey, tugging here, smoothing there, every movement precise. Her workroom smelled of candlewax and dye, bolts of fabric stacked like the armory of a different kind of war.

She had been dressing him for three years, ever since he decided to shed his father’s stiff vests and waist-high trousers for clothes that breathed. Tunics that swirled with movement, skirts that caught the light, silks that mirrored the glint of his jewelry, and jewelry that echoed the color of his eyes.

By now, Davos trusted her utterly, as if she held the map to his very life.
“You’ll turn heads tonight,” Perianne said, a pin clamped between her teeth, eyes glinting as she adjusted the drape of the velvet train. “Radiant, terrifying, impossible to forget. Just the way you like it.”

Davos gave a low hum, neither denial nor admission. The robes were velvet, red so dark it shimmered like wet wine beneath the candles, spilling into a train that trailed behind him in long pools. Each step made the fabric shift and flow, a river of scarlet that seemed too alive to be mere cloth. His sleeves swelled wide and heavy, like gathering storm clouds, narrowing at his wrists where the hennaed hand emerged like a blade unsheathed. Over his chest gleamed plates of hammered bronze and gold, roses etched deep into their surface, their petals catching the light. A shirt beneath bore a collar patterned like a garden, green leaves against the flood of red, as though life itself dared to bloom in defiance of the grave.

It was beautiful, and it was armor. Let them all stare at him, whisper about him, envy him. As long as they could not see that beneath the velvet and bronze was a man clawing toward one face, one smile, one impossible, private tenderness.

His mask rested on the table beside him, a cracked porcelain skull gilded with gold, the king’s severed face flowering at the sides like some tragic bloom. Across the brow, in sharp strokes of black, were the words: This is the form, and what is left of it; this law is all human beings.
The Red Reaper, come to dance among mortals.

Sometimes he wondered if he was not already half that myth, wandering among these lords and ladies, hollow with longing. He thought of the story as Perianne adjusted a seam: the Reaper who fell in love with a mortal king, so beautiful and fragile that Death himself could not part with him. The Reaper who came in red robes, desperate to hold him forever. But love could not halt time. The king withered. And Death still wanders, dressed in blood and roses, forever searching the faces of men for the one he had lost.

The tale was supposed to be a warning, a way of telling children that even gods cannot escape loss. Yet Davos carried it like a secret prayer. If he was to be the Reaper, then let Ales be his king, and let them steal every moment possible before the story turned bitter.

“Tell me,” Perianne said lightly, brushing a fold of cloth over his shoulder. “Who is it that makes you want to dress like this, hm? The one who’s managed to snare the heart of my most difficult patron?”

Davos’ lips curled, though not quite into a smile. “Snare? No. I walked willingly into his net.”
Her brows arched at the pronoun, but she asked nothing, only continued to smooth seams with careful fingers.

“He is clever,” he said at last, his voice low, almost reverent. “Clever enough to keep me waiting, clever enough to make me want to be patient.” And patience was agony, every heartbeat a knife turned sideways, but still he endured it. He let his lips twitch, almost a smirk. “And bold enough that patience will cost me dearly.”

Perianne hummed, fastening the golden roses that gleamed across his chest. “A dangerous combination.”

“Perfect,” he corrected.

She laughed then, warm and unbothered, and patted his sleeve. “Ah, to be young and undone by love. At least you’ll look the part of a legend while you’re at it.”

Davos’ freshly painted fingers flexed. He was carrying Ales’ rose in his palm. When his fist closed, the flower disappeared; when he opened it, it blossomed anew, as if he carried eternal spring in the hollow of his hand.
A hand that would soon intertwine with his beloved’s.

“Davos?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve picked carnations today, they express love.”

He gave her a pointed look. Perianne shrugged.
“I’ll wrap you a bouquet, loverboy.”

“I would kill for you.”

She laughed, tying the flowers with ribbons. “I hate how much you mean it.”

He was late. The collar of his tunic, red and richly worked, scratched at his throat. His rings felt ill-fitting. His wine was too sweet. His temper frayed like a tapestry picked at from the hem.

And then the doors to the ballroom opened, and the world ceased its turning.

Alesander was there already, leaving a dance with lady Blacktyde, Berena’s lover.

His hair was combed back, gleaming gold in the firelight, echoing the yellows that made his suit and embroidered vest. Davos’ own sunshine. The rose of House Penrose was everywhere: upon mask, over his ring, twisted in his earrings, but the details were theirs. The book necklace Davos’ had bought him, the dagger on the rose of his ring. A piece of their love, walking across the floor as if born of a dream.

No mask could fool them, it seemed. Davos was sure he would recognize Ales blind, simply by the way his feet dragged across any floor.

A lord had shaken his hand when he walked, probably trying to gauge who was beneath the mask. Davos’ fingers clenched before he knew it. The lordling beside him yelped, his hand caught in Davos’ steel-strong grasp, and smacked his arm in protest. Davos loosed him without apology. How could he speak, when Alesander was smiling across the hall as though the sun itself had risen?

He moved before he thought to, the crowd parting before him as if commanded by gods. He saw none of them. Only him.

He came to Alesander’s side, leaning close enough to be felt, and whispered:

“You look divine, I ought to fall to my knees and thank every god for the grace of putting you in my life.”

His fingers brushed Ales’ back above the folds of silk, no more than a ghost’s touch, but real all the same. A claim. A promise. A brand.

He drew back only far enough to meet his gaze, and for one fierce, blinding heartbeat, Davos nearly kissed him then and there, before the eyes of every noble in the room.

Nearly.

“May I have the honor of dancing you, please?”

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

Davos was going to be the death of him, surely. But he would be happy about it.

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

[alesanderpenrose]

The square had been busy and bustling at this hour with people trading and buying things. Though it was terribly chaotic, Alesander loved it. He loved exploring this place, he loved meeting new people and peering at items that caught his eye. Items he could bring back for his family members, or Davos, if he was feeling brave enough.

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

Finally, three, Ales needed to pick out an outfit. And fast.

[davos-allyrion]

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

“It’s fine…” Davos lied. “You’re drunk… just drunk.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Waiting for the night to finally arrive had made Alesander restless.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

His story was a tragedy at every turn, it seemed. Never a fairytale.

[davos-allyrion]

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

To make it easier for Davos to stop loving him.

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was avoiding him.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.

Horrors is what he found in the West Wing.

His walk slowed as he took in everything, heart racing with every new thing his eyes landed on.

Blood. So much blood. Metal glinted from the fire he’d lit on the wall from his torch. It was dark in here, eerily dark. He observed metal stained with red. Sharp things caught his gaze, sharp things with more blood.

There was writing he couldn’t comprehend, his vision blurred with fear or disbelief or both.

Ales now stood in front of a pit of… something. He couldn’t even remember when his feet took him to it, just that he saw it now, and he was afraid.

So this is why I was told never to come here. He thought, barely processing it. Davos was hiding this. Hiding something terrible.

A million questions flooded his mind, none of them making sense to him. Who knew about this? What was this? Why was this here? What does Davos do here?

Davos. His Davos. The man who’d let him stay here and do what he loved. The man who’d looked at Ales without the judgment he’d come to know. The man who Ales held so gently in his arms, soothing the sickness that had hurt him.

The man who had Ales’ heart in his hands.

This was his secret.

The butcher, Ales’ mind whispered, suddenly and without warning. He had known all the rumors about Davos, and he’d ignored every single one. He’d been taught from a young age to ignore rumors, mostly from the Prince Joffrey, but it was a lesson that stuck with him.

He wasn’t above gossip, but he was above believing it. But now…

He didn’t want to believe it. To believe the worst of Davos. But his heart felt as if it was in his throat, and everything here had sent his hands into a violent shake.

What had he discovered?

Then, a voice spoke Ales’ name. Without wanting to, he stepped back, afraid. It was Davos himself.

He caught me. Or, maybe, I caught him.

Then, he spoke again. Davos said “no,” over and over again. He said it as Ales stared, unwavering eyes.

Was that confirmation? Confirmation that none of this was right, that it was a secret Ales was never supposed to learn?

Ales couldn’t even hear the rest of his words, the blood was rushing too loudly in his ears, and his eyes were too fixated on Davos himself. He tried to examine Davos, to look for any sign that none of this was real. But it was real.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

No explanation. No comfort. Nothing, except for that Ales knew that what he’d seen here was not for his eyes, and Davos wasn’t happy. Ales was frozen, waiting to wake up from this terrible dream, or for Davos to tell him something to make this all go away. But he didn’t.

Say something. Say something. Say something!

His mind scolded him, but his body did not comply. His body trembled and ached and pained, but did not speak.

The last thing he processed was Davos, yelling at him. Yelling at him to leave.

Alesander flinched hard, coming back to reality. Davos had never raised his voice at him, never once. He’d always spoken to him with a kind of gentleness that made him want to cry. Now, he did want to cry, but not out of tenderness.

His feet seemed to carry him to the door without his mind knowing.

He hid this from me. He hates me. He’s doing something terrible here. None of this is right. I need to leave, as he ordered me to.

No one had payed Alesander any mind as he left.

It was a common occurrence for him to leave the castle for town, and it wasn’t like anyone knew of what had just happened. It wasn’t as if they could see that his heart was torn from his chest, stomped on, and ruined now.

He hadn’t had the time for tears yet.

In a haste, he’d rushed to his room, grabbed his bag that he always brought to town, and left. He hadn’t taken anything else, as he didn’t think to.

A part of him wanted to leave his belongings. For Davos to see them, and to remember him. Another part of him was so confused and afraid, that packing his clothes wasn’t a priority.

Ales left and made his way to the docks. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Larra, Nymeria, Kiera, Ryon, and all the people he’d cared for.

He felt the tiniest bit of relief when he saw the captain. Arron, he recognized. A man he’d known well, one he talked to often on his visits to town. Ales had helped his son, Maron, with his reading.

Arron was the captain of the ship, which was leaving for Westeros on the morrow.

Ales approached him, meekly, trying to hide the sorrow on his face.

Arron spoke first. “Going home so soon, Penrose? My boy will miss you.” His tone didn’t make it seem friendly, but that was just how the man spoke. Ales had come to know many of the people here, in Godsgrace. Observing them, connecting with them. He had thought once that he might stay here forever. No longer was that true, he knew.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He searched in his small bag for the coin he always kept there.

The captain rolled his eyes. He looked so much like his son when he did that, Alesander thought. He would miss them. “Nonsense. But I’ll take you home.”

Alesander’s heart dropped when he realized there was no coin. He’d spent it all, all the coin he’d brought to Dorne. The rest of it was left in his room, and there was no going back now.

He could have cried right there and then. “Fuck. I- I’m sorry- I don’t-“

Arron realized instantly what was happening. He interrupted Ales, “don’t worry about it, Ser. You’ve done enough for my family. Consider us even now.”

The monotone voice was comforting, but not enough to soothe the shaking that hadn’t left Alesander since this morning. The unstoppable hurt from what had happened.

Absentmindedly, he thanked Arron, and boarded the ferry.

Other people walked about the deck, paying no mind to Alesander Penrose and his grief.

He found a secluded edge, where less people wandered, and sunk to the floorboards. He hugged his journal for dear life, finding little comfort in that.

Davos had gotten him that journal.

Feeling the wood and inhaling the salty air, it all became real suddenly. Having this time now, to think, he did. Everything came back to him.

The discovery of the West Wing. Their fight. All that he’d seen. Frantically, he revisited everything he remembered he saw.

Diagrams, so many diagrams. Ones stained with blood, ones with little notes in the margins, ones that Ales couldn’t make out. What did it all mean?

There was the vat, as well. The horrifying, vat of liquid that steamed with the scent of something Alesander couldn’t name. Something evil? Or something that he’d misjudged?

Weapons, everywhere. Ones with the rusted color that Ales assumed was, once again, blood. Saws, small knives, and…

No, he thought, suddenly. No, not weapons. Tools. Surgical tools.

He knew Davos was a healer. He’d known it all along, heard the stories of how Davos was a talented healer. Gods, he’d even came to Kings Landing to deliver The Queen’s babies.

No, perhaps it hadn’t been what Alesander thought it was. The blood, the tools, the notes. It was research. It was healing. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible, misjudgment.

The realization hit him hard as if he had been struck in the face.

He made Davos feel ashamed. He’d made Davos think that he was afraid of him. He’d hurt Davos, just as everyone who spoke terrible things about him tried to hurt him.

That was why he yelled at him. Why he didn’t explain.

His own words came back to him. “I’ll care for you. Always.”

Ales had broken that promise to Davos. He’d been so afraid, he’d went against his words. It was all ruined now, all Alesander’s fault for being a terrified fool.

Alesander swallowed hard, trying to keep the rush of tears down, but to no avail. Defeated, and exhausted, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his head in his arms.

He cried.

[davos-allyrion]

The echo of his voice still clung to the air when the door slammed shut. The silence afterward was unbearable. The West Wing was a tomb, stone swallowing sound whole, as if it had long waited to drink down the last of him. Torches guttered low, shadows stretched long across the flags, and Davos stood amidst them, chest heaving, throat raw from the shout.

Five moons. Five moons of a fairytale he had no right to live. Five moons of pretending he could be something other than butcher, heretic, shadow of a man. Five moons of tricking himself into believing he might be worthy of Alesander’s laughter in the morning, his steady hand at night.

Now the illusion was over, shattered in a single look.

And gods, he could still see it: the terror in Alesander’s eyes.

Not anger. Not confusion. Fear.

Fear, as if he were nothing but the monster whispered about in drunken tales. Fear, the same look common folk bore when he came for their kin with priest’s smile and butcher’s blade. Fear that said plain: I see you now. I know what you are.

His mind coiled in on itself, tearing him open from within. Was this not always inevitable? That sooner or later, Alesander’s gaze would pierce the veil and glimpse the rot beneath? Love was only borrowed time, only grace he had never earned. What was he thinking, what madness had told him he could cradle light without blackening it?

He remembered, with sudden, jarring clarity, the quiet, almost imperceptible moment he had stolen from himself. Alesander bent over a notebook, sunlight catching the ink, each stroke deliberate, each word a secret whispered to a world Davos had not yet been allowed to enter. The way his curls fell across his forehead, the subtle purse of his lips in concentration… it lodged itself in Davos’ chest, stubborn as a splinter.

Davos had lingered under the pretense of attending to papers, fingers busy, eyes pretending not to see. But he could not look away. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache that had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with curiosity. Something sharper, more consuming, had taken root.

The thought had come, a quiet, dangerous tremor in the mind: I am in love with him.

He had tried to bury it, to turn his mind back to the rhythm that kept the thoughts at bay. But every movement of Alesander’s pen, every upward glance in thought, shifted the world beneath Davos’ feet, and he could not find solid ground again.

He moved without thought. The pestle still lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling. Work was what he had left. Order. The bite of steel, the rhythm of scrubbing, the mindless ritual that kept the rot at bay. The bath still steamed faintly, the stink cloying in his nostrils. If he didn’t scour the saws, the blood would rust them. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would eat through the stone. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend Alesander hadn’t looked at him as if the man he knew was already a corpse.

But his hands betrayed him. They shook too much, fumbling rag and cloth. When he tried to scrape dried gore from a scalpel, it slipped, slicing the heel of his palm. A clean, deep cut. Blood welled dark and hot. Davos stared at it, then laughed.

The sound was hideous. Mad. A jagged bark torn from his chest. Of course. What else could he expect? Devils belong in hell. What was he doing, trying to cage an angel?

His thoughts circled like carrion crows, each darker than the last. Alesander had touched his hair like it was worth touching. Whispered to him like he deserved gentleness. And Davos had repaid him with bone saws and chains. What was love from a monster but another form of cruelty?

The laughter bent him double until it broke into sobs, raw and wrenching. He pressed his bleeding hand to his face, smearing red across his skin. Pathetic. A grown man, a lord, in his nightclothes, crying like a child among the ruins of his own making.

A voice in his head mocked him as he scrubbed the floors: ‘you clean the blood as if the filth is in the stones, not in your veins.’ He wrapped his wound in linen, clumsy and crooked. He looked at his hands and thought: they would never be clean. Not even if he boiled them down to the bone.

By the time the floors were scrubbed and the doors locked, his body ached. His face was swollen, eyes raw, hand clumsily bound in linen. He wandered until Larra found him. Her gaze darted from the bandage to his ravaged face. She raced forward, hands quick, reaching to tend.

“Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head. His voice cracked, too thin. “It’s ruined. I ruined everything.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I scared him.” The words fell heavy, bitter.

“Scared who?”

He wanted to lie, but the truth forced itself out, ragged and broken. “Ales.”

Her brows knitted, confusion soft as her voice. “Why?”

His throat burned. “Because I love him.”

The words left him flayed. Saying it aloud made it real, unbearable. He pressed a hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. He wished he could swallow the admission whole. He wished he could die and wake as something else.

A flower, perhaps. Something simple. Something Alesander could pluck, keep in a vase by the window. Something worthy of his touch.

Larra’s hand brushed his arm. “Then tell him,” she urged. “Tell him you love him.”

“It’s useless,” Davos whispered. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Did he say that?”

He clawed at his hair, pain sharp as he tugged. How could he tell Alesander he had earned the devotion of a killer? That he wanted to beg him not to go where he could not follow? Drag me through hell, but stay where I can see.

“Last night,” Larra murmured, “when the migraine had you near mad, he was there. He never left your side. He soothed you. If you can’t trust your own heart, then trust his.”

The words struck like a hammer. He froze. His mind spun. The cool cloth, the voice low and steady, the fingers combing his hair.

Not a dream. Not a poppy-sick illusion.

Before he could think, he was running. Faster, faster, tearing through the halls toward Alesander’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Inside too little was disturbed. Clothes folded. Coin pouch untouched. Panic slammed into him.

Gods. Alesander was out there. Alone. And it was his fault.

Davos didn’t care that he was half-dressed, bleeding through his bandage. He tore through Godsgrace, demanding answers, until they pointed him to the docks. To the ferry.

Arron, the ferry captain, shifted uneasily. “The lad seemed heartbroken, milord.”

Davos shoved a gold bracelet into his hand, voice cracking. “Give me your quarters. Just—just give me a chance.”

It took too long to find him. Faces blurred past. Bows, whispers, startled stares at their lord running half-mad across the deck. And then, Alesander.

Hunched on the far side, shoulders bowed, face streaked with tears. The sight broke him entirely.

“Ales—” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, seizing him by the elbow. “Don’t run. Please—don’t.” His words tumbled desperate, uneven. “Come with me, just come, I can’t—” He dragged him into the captain’s quarters, hands shaking.

The quarters were dark without the oil to burn, moonlight making its way through a small window. Arron was a good man, grateful enough not to ask questions, well paid enough to keep people from interrupting them.

The door shut. Davos reached for Alesander’s face, brushing away tears with his sleeve. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice fraying. “All this because of me. I never meant it—I never wanted you to see—” His breath hitched. “I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry.”

When words failed, he fell to his knees. Head bowed, chest heaving, clutching at Alesander’s legs

With the cold gnawing at his bare legs, Davos felt like a lamb offering its throat to the blade. Whether Alesander chose to be the shepherd or the executioner, Davos’ neck was already bared, exposed, and waiting.

“I love you…” The words slipped out, raw and unbidden, and Davos wished he could claw them back, bury them in the recesses of a dream. “I don’t know how to love, not properly, but I feel it here, in my bones. I’m rotten, Alesander. You’ve called me great, brilliant, even beautiful… but no one else sees me that way. To them, I’m a vulture. A scavenger.”

Davos’ head dropped to Alesander’s belt, and he wished the pressure of it would leave a mark, a scar to remember this moment by. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense Alesander’s hand rising, slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for a feral creature poised to bolt or bite. Davos was certain he would know Alesander’s presence even blind and deaf. He thought he would recognize the space between them, the quiet tension in the air, the way Alesander reached for him before their skin ever touched. And when they did—when Alesander’s fingers finally curled around his shoulders, gently prying them apart—Davos knew he would carry the memory of that touch into his dreams.

He already did.

Now, as Davos looked up, regret pooled heavy in his gut. Alesander was beautiful like this, his face illuminated in the dim light, blonde hair catching the glow, freckles scattered like constellations, his eyes glimmering with something unspoken. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he were choking on the weight of his response, the inevitability of rejection.

Davos wondered, briefly, if Alesander feared him. He would sooner sever his own hand than harm Alesander, but Alesander was too clever to mistake a lynx for a housecat. The thought made Davos’ grip on Alesander’s hips slacken. He would let go. He would let Alesander leave, if that was what he wanted.

“I’ve killed more people than I can name,” Davos confessed, his voice low and trembling. “I don’t feel enough guilt to purify me. I’d kill again. I’m selfish, Alesander. Greedy. I want you all to myself. I’m jealous—jealous of everything and everyone that’s ever kept you from me. Jealous of the men who’ve had you, jealous of the men you’ve had. Jealous that they’re not me. Jealous that they’ve traced your freckles in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I’m… pathetic. Rambling. Love has made me a coward.”

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart poured faster, uncontainable. He’ll leave. He’ll despise you. He’ll see the madness, the ruin, and he’ll turn away. Yet the words came anyway, bloody and bare, dragging his soul into the open.

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his throat, and he dropped his hands to clutch at his knees. His skin felt cold, but his body burned, feverish and raw. What a selfish, wretched little thing his heart was, demanding Alesander join him in this hell.

“I love you,” he repeated, the words spilling out like a plea. “I’ll love you if you stay in Godsgrace for the rest of your days. I’ll love you if you walk away right now. I’ll love you if you marry someone else, if you build a life far from me. I’ll love you if you decide that sharing my loneliness is enough.”

On his knees, dressed in threadbare pajamas and stripped of dignity, Davos prayed harder than he ever had to the Seven.

For once, it wasn’t atonement he sought.

Only Alesander.

[alesanderpenrose]

Dark had come, and Alesander was still crying.

How many hours had passed, and he had just sat here? He couldn’t be sure. Maybe it wasn’t even hours, only mere minutes, and he was going mad.

People had tried to talk to him, but he’d barely noticed. After many failed attempts of conversation and asking if he was alright, every passenger decided he wasn’t worth the extra breath.

Good, he didn’t want to speak now. He wanted to waste away here, sink into the floorboards, never be seen again.

The memory of everything that happened before replayed in his mind, over and over again.

Davos, his heart and mind both ached for him, Davos. I’m sorry.

In the midst of all of his heartbreak, suddenly, he heard his name being called. Not just someone asking if he was alright, no, it was a familiar voice. It was-

He looked up, and somehow, he was there- Davos.

Was Ales seeing things? Had the sorrow and longing made him believe Davos was somehow here with him?

Clearly not, Ales decided, by the looks of the other passengers faces, and by the way Davos had grabbed his arm. Real, this was real. He came for me?

He barely had time to process anything before Davos was pulling him into the captains quarters. Davos was still in the same clothes he had been in when everything had happened. He looked frazzled, as if he had been crying, as if seeing Alesander was the only thing in the world that mattered. He had blood on him, where had that come from? Alesander’s heart hurt with more misery and guilt and things he never knew he could feel.

He came for me. In his nightclothes, in his sorrow, in his bloody bandages, he came for me.

Who had ever come for Alesander before like this?

They entered the small room, now secluded from everyone else, and Alesander felt the anxiousness rise in him again. He couldn’t tell what was happening, what was going to happen, and only wanted to apologize to Davos now, to hold him and ask him what had happened. Ales’ lips frowned in sorrow, his eyes still leaked tears he could not stop.

But, Davos wiped the tears that remained on his face, and Alesander let him. The touch was everything. He wanted to say something to Davos, anything, but Davos continued to speak. He spoke frantically, apologizing, and then…

He was on the ground, holding Ales’ waist.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

“I love you…”

He loves me.

Alesander swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was horribly painful, and more tears lingered in his eyes.

No more tears, he demanded to himself. He needed to be strong for Davos, who he was currently staring at, as he could not pull his gaze away from him. He loves me.

At some point, Ales had grabbed Davos’ shoulders, trying to steady him, needing to feel him.

Davos, who was on his knees, looked like he was saying some sorrowful prayer. He looked as if he had sinned and was confessing to Alesander who was his saint… But he was not. He confessed, but confessed his love. Love for Ales. Ales felt the grip of Davos’ hands at his hips slacken, then leave entirely. It was all so much to take in.

Ales listened. Listened, and felt his heart beat with every new thing Davos said. He memorized every word in his soul, felt every confession in his bones, and continued to listen.

He loves me as I love him.

Then, silence. Davos, on the ground, and Alesander watching him.

Alesander shook his head, realizing he had not yet said a word to what he’d just heard. Davos confessed, and confessed, and confessed, and all Alesander did was watch him with tearful eyes. It was time to confess back, to be honest for once in his life.

Slowly, he kneeled to face Davos.

Their knees touched, eyes locked on each other, and time felt as if it had stopped just for them.

Ales’ eyes shifted, lingering for a moment on Davos’ hand, bandaged and bloodied. It reminded Alesander of weeks ago, when the man in front of him had one of his hands in bloody bandages, the same as now.

Alesander had held his hand then, worried for him, then dropped the hand. He would never do that again.

He took Davos’ hand, carefully as to not touch the wound, and brought it to the left side of his chest, his heart. He placed the long fingers there there, delicately, and gently placed his own hand over Davos’. Would it leave blood on his shirt? He did not know. He did not care. If it did, he’d wear the stain proudly.

“My heart is yours, Davos.” His words came out raspy from the crying and the exhaustion, but the tenderness could not be misheard.

Then, with his free hand, he reached out, taking the other hand of his beloved that did not grace his heart. Then, quietly, but clearly, he spoke, “I love you.”

As gently as he could, and began to rub his thumbs against the rough skin of his beloved. Trying to calm the nerves he could see pouring from Davos. As if he wasn’t trembling himself.

He laughed, softly and quietly, but he laughed. “I’ve been miserable, truly. I’m always miserable, but i’ve been even worse loving you and not telling you. I’m glad you had the courage I did not.”

Davos looked so fragile, so soft in the moonlight. The darkness of the night reminded Ales suddenly of the dark room he’d found, of why the two were here now. Of the secrets between them.

“I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did. I was shocked to find what I did, surely. But, no, none of it changed the way I feel for you. You’re not rotten. You’re none of the horrible things you call yourself. I see who you really are.”

Alesander shifted slightly, feeling the wooden floorboards beneath his legs. He barely cared where they were, that they were on the floor of a ferry destined to leave in some hours, just knew that Davos was in front of him now, and that was all that mattered.

“You…” He paused, smiling, continuing to rub at the knuckles of the man he loved in front of him. A gentle smile and gentle touches. “I’ve never had someone treat me in the way you do. As if I’m interesting and someone worth caring for, as if I am good for anything. And I have seen the way you treat others, you pretend you’re not kind, but I see through you. I see the person I want the most in the world.”

A short pause, then, one to give Davos a look. A kind, soft look. One that he hoped said “I love you, I care for you, I see you,” just as much as his words did.

“But, I need you to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. No more secrets between us, no more hiding ourselves away.” For most of Ales’ life, he’d tried desperately to hide the parts of him he hated. Hide the things he did, the places he went, the vulnerable parts of him. But no longer would he with Davos. They were in this together now, the two of them.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he lunged forward and hugged Davos. He sucked in a breath, shaky and emotional. “I love you, Lord Davos Allyrion. I love you, and I don’t want to leave Godsgrace, I want to stay with you. I want to go wherever you go, because I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”

He pulled back, slowly and gently, and looked into Davos’ eyes. His arms wrapped around Davos’ shoulders, not wanting to stop touching him.

“I’m not going back to Westeros, because I’m going home, with you.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos’ breath caught at the words, at the way Alesander’s voice trembled and steadied all at once. He hadn’t known how desperately he’d needed to hear them until now. His chest ached, ribs too tight to hold the sudden swell of his heart. For so long, his longing had been a secret wound, hidden beneath silence. And now Alesander pressed his hand to his heart as if to say: Here. It has been yours all along.

His arms wrapped around Alesander before he could think better of it. His cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder, his lips finding the line of his neck.

The ferry rocked beneath them, boards creaking, salt thick in the night air. Yet the world outside felt impossibly far away, as though they had slipped into a secret place beyond time. Lantern-light caught in Alesander’s hair, across the pale sweep of his cheek, and Davos thought he had never seen anything so alive, so beloved.

“Let’s go home…” Davos hummed. Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling, mouths brushing faintly as if neither could bear distance. “No more secrets. I swear it.”

He wanted to be cautious of the docks, the watching eyes, the careful silences that had guarded him all his life. But what storm could hold back the lightning in his chest now? The way Alesander had said his name—Lord Davos Allyrion—as if it meant more than land or title. As if it meant him.

They walked back to Godsgrace hand in hand, palms pressed together like twin heartbeats. Every inch of Davos’ skin was alive, his nerves strung taut, Alesander plucking each one in perfect harmony. His mind whirled with a single refrain: more, more, more, more.

“My brother is alive,” Davos confessed, startled by the silence, needing to fill it. “They say I killed him. I didn’t. He lives in Volantis with his wife. I don’t have spies on him, it didn’t feel right.”

Another turn, his wounded hand tightening painfully in Alesander’s grasp. He hissed, but kept going.

“I do have spies. That much is true. Mostly former brothel workers, I trained them myself. I smoke, but I hate to drink. I can only ride my mare, Velma, on any other horse I’d fall flat. My hands are scarred from chemical waste. I sleep with one candle burning and a dagger under my pillow. I lied: I remember every person I’ve killed. I hate trousers, they make my skin itch. I’m afraid of going blind because of my eyes. If I could, I’d walk barefoot always. When I’m nervous, I scrub the floors—or myself—until one of us bleeds. I always wanted a cat, but I fear it would love my sisters more. I’ve dreamt of you since the day you came to Godsgrace. I love spicy food, though it makes me weep. I have a scar on my hip where Mors stabbed me. I’m still talking because I’m nervous, and I apologize, but if I don’t kiss you again very soon, I’ll perish.”

By the gate, Alesander glanced at him, brows drawn in that familiar way, ready to ask a question he already knew the answer to.

“Follow me,” Davos murmured, kissing the back of his hand. His lips lingered, both a reverent promise, a distraction.

In his chambers, Davos did not let go. It wasn’t Ales’ first time here, but it felt new, charged. The silence between them no longer fragile but expectant. Theirs.

He turned, torchlight painting Alesander in shifting gold. Davos’ breath stilled.

“I need to tell you something more,” he said, voice low. “That night… the first time you kissed me. You were drunk. You looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense… and you kissed me.”

He laughed, short and awkward. Oh gods, I’m blushing.

“I didn’t kiss you back. Not because I didn’t want to. I wanted to… so much it hurt. But I was afraid I’d do it wrong.” His hands fidgeted, then stilled. “I don’t have… the kind of experience others do. I’m not naïve. I know what happens. I’ve read books, heard the boasts. But I never wanted that, not like that. I wanted it to mean something.”

As you do.

His thumb traced Alesander’s cheekbone, reverent. Their noses brushed once more, breath mingling shallow, searching.

“Teach me,” he whispered. “Teach me to kiss you, to touch you, to make you like it.”

And Alesander did.

The kiss was not awkward, not fumbling. It was full, alive. Heat and tenderness, sacred in the way Alesander guided him, coaxed him, showed him.

The night unfurled like a secret.

Davos had known heat only in theory, in overheard boasts and clinical descriptions and the stories men traded like coin. But none of those things had ever spoken of this, of aching tenderness, of laughter between kisses, of fingers twining like roots in the soil of a shared bed. Of being held like something unbearable to lose.

He hadn’t known it could feel like heaven.

He hadn’t known it could feel like love.

Now the world was quiet again. The moon traced silver lines along their tangled limbs, and the air smelled like warm skin and open windows.

Davos was still kissing him slowly, lazily, trying to memorize the shape of each other’s mouths, like stopping might mean forgetting.

As if the night could stretch on forever. And maybe it could.

Their limbs were still tangled, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed, and Alesander’s neck and shoulders were bitten red where Davos had marked him in the dark, clumsy heat of wanting.

The urge to keep touching Ales, to keep proving this was real, made Davos’ hands restless.

“Ales…” His voice was soft. Drowsy. Scared. “Will you stay the night?”

A beat passed, and Davos’ throat worked as he corrected himself, voice shaking just slightly.

“No. I mean—could you stay forever?”

Morning came in the shape of Ales’ curls, mussed and haloed.

Davos was a fool. He had a dozen better things to do than sit in his room watching Ales move about like he owned the place. Wearing his clothes, no less, neck marked with Davos’ teeth. And there Davos lay, sheet tangled at his hips, body mapped in scratches and bites like he’d fought his way through a feral brawl. Maybe he had.

Ales reached for a book, fingers trailing its spine as though he belonged here. Like the morning, the intimacy, the comfort were not fragile things at all.

“This book is about High Valyrian,” Davos rasped, his voice rough. “I was never fond of the Targaryens, but the Daynes speak it. So do many of the Free Folk. If they cross into Godsgrace, I need to understand them.”

Ales smiled.

Perfect, radiant, too good for me.

Davos rose, tying his tunic, though his hands wandered back to Ales’ waist, tracing the freckles on his shoulders into constellations.

“This one’s Ursa Major,” he murmured against Ales’ skin, lips trailing up to the blush at his ear. “This one is mine.”

He nipped at Ales’ earlobe, unable to stop himself from marking the pale skin with proof of possession.

No more secrets.

There was still one left.

“Would you…” Davos hesitated, hiding his face against Ales’ back as an excuse to kiss over his spine. “Would you see the West Wing with me? It’s clean now. I could light the lanterns, explain… it won’t look like…”

Death.

“It’s part of your home too. If you want it to be.”

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

Davos was going to be the death of him, surely. But he would be happy about it.

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

[alesanderpenrose]

The square had been busy and bustling at this hour with people trading and buying things. Though it was terribly chaotic, Alesander loved it. He loved exploring this place, he loved meeting new people and peering at items that caught his eye. Items he could bring back for his family members, or Davos, if he was feeling brave enough.

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

Finally, three, Ales needed to pick out an outfit. And fast.

[davos-allyrion]

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

“It’s fine…” Davos lied. “You’re drunk… just drunk.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Waiting for the night to finally arrive had made Alesander restless.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

His story was a tragedy at every turn, it seemed. Never a fairytale.

[davos-allyrion]

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

To make it easier for Davos to stop loving him.

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was avoiding him.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.

Horrors is what he found in the West Wing.

His walk slowed as he took in everything, heart racing with every new thing his eyes landed on.

Blood. So much blood. Metal glinted from the fire he’d lit on the wall from his torch. It was dark in here, eerily dark. He observed metal stained with red. Sharp things caught his gaze, sharp things with more blood.

There was writing he couldn’t comprehend, his vision blurred with fear or disbelief or both.

Ales now stood in front of a pit of… something. He couldn’t even remember when his feet took him to it, just that he saw it now, and he was afraid.

So this is why I was told never to come here. He thought, barely processing it. Davos was hiding this. Hiding something terrible.

A million questions flooded his mind, none of them making sense to him. Who knew about this? What was this? Why was this here? What does Davos do here?

Davos. His Davos. The man who’d let him stay here and do what he loved. The man who’d looked at Ales without the judgment he’d come to know. The man who Ales held so gently in his arms, soothing the sickness that had hurt him.

The man who had Ales’ heart in his hands.

This was his secret.

The butcher, Ales’ mind whispered, suddenly and without warning. He had known all the rumors about Davos, and he’d ignored every single one. He’d been taught from a young age to ignore rumors, mostly from the Prince Joffrey, but it was a lesson that stuck with him.

He wasn’t above gossip, but he was above believing it. But now…

He didn’t want to believe it. To believe the worst of Davos. But his heart felt as if it was in his throat, and everything here had sent his hands into a violent shake.

What had he discovered?

Then, a voice spoke Ales’ name. Without wanting to, he stepped back, afraid. It was Davos himself.

He caught me. Or, maybe, I caught him.

Then, he spoke again. Davos said “no,” over and over again. He said it as Ales stared, unwavering eyes.

Was that confirmation? Confirmation that none of this was right, that it was a secret Ales was never supposed to learn?

Ales couldn’t even hear the rest of his words, the blood was rushing too loudly in his ears, and his eyes were too fixated on Davos himself. He tried to examine Davos, to look for any sign that none of this was real. But it was real.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

No explanation. No comfort. Nothing, except for that Ales knew that what he’d seen here was not for his eyes, and Davos wasn’t happy. Ales was frozen, waiting to wake up from this terrible dream, or for Davos to tell him something to make this all go away. But he didn’t.

Say something. Say something. Say something!

His mind scolded him, but his body did not comply. His body trembled and ached and pained, but did not speak.

The last thing he processed was Davos, yelling at him. Yelling at him to leave.

Alesander flinched hard, coming back to reality. Davos had never raised his voice at him, never once. He’d always spoken to him with a kind of gentleness that made him want to cry. Now, he did want to cry, but not out of tenderness.

His feet seemed to carry him to the door without his mind knowing.

He hid this from me. He hates me. He’s doing something terrible here. None of this is right. I need to leave, as he ordered me to.

No one had payed Alesander any mind as he left.

It was a common occurrence for him to leave the castle for town, and it wasn’t like anyone knew of what had just happened. It wasn’t as if they could see that his heart was torn from his chest, stomped on, and ruined now.

He hadn’t had the time for tears yet.

In a haste, he’d rushed to his room, grabbed his bag that he always brought to town, and left. He hadn’t taken anything else, as he didn’t think to.

A part of him wanted to leave his belongings. For Davos to see them, and to remember him. Another part of him was so confused and afraid, that packing his clothes wasn’t a priority.

Ales left and made his way to the docks. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Larra, Nymeria, Kiera, Ryon, and all the people he’d cared for.

He felt the tiniest bit of relief when he saw the captain. Arron, he recognized. A man he’d known well, one he talked to often on his visits to town. Ales had helped his son, Maron, with his reading.

Arron was the captain of the ship, which was leaving for Westeros on the morrow.

Ales approached him, meekly, trying to hide the sorrow on his face.

Arron spoke first. “Going home so soon, Penrose? My boy will miss you.” His tone didn’t make it seem friendly, but that was just how the man spoke. Ales had come to know many of the people here, in Godsgrace. Observing them, connecting with them. He had thought once that he might stay here forever. No longer was that true, he knew.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He searched in his small bag for the coin he always kept there.

The captain rolled his eyes. He looked so much like his son when he did that, Alesander thought. He would miss them. “Nonsense. But I’ll take you home.”

Alesander’s heart dropped when he realized there was no coin. He’d spent it all, all the coin he’d brought to Dorne. The rest of it was left in his room, and there was no going back now.

He could have cried right there and then. “Fuck. I- I’m sorry- I don’t-“

Arron realized instantly what was happening. He interrupted Ales, “don’t worry about it, Ser. You’ve done enough for my family. Consider us even now.”

The monotone voice was comforting, but not enough to soothe the shaking that hadn’t left Alesander since this morning. The unstoppable hurt from what had happened.

Absentmindedly, he thanked Arron, and boarded the ferry.

Other people walked about the deck, paying no mind to Alesander Penrose and his grief.

He found a secluded edge, where less people wandered, and sunk to the floorboards. He hugged his journal for dear life, finding little comfort in that.

Davos had gotten him that journal.

Feeling the wood and inhaling the salty air, it all became real suddenly. Having this time now, to think, he did. Everything came back to him.

The discovery of the West Wing. Their fight. All that he’d seen. Frantically, he revisited everything he remembered he saw.

Diagrams, so many diagrams. Ones stained with blood, ones with little notes in the margins, ones that Ales couldn’t make out. What did it all mean?

There was the vat, as well. The horrifying, vat of liquid that steamed with the scent of something Alesander couldn’t name. Something evil? Or something that he’d misjudged?

Weapons, everywhere. Ones with the rusted color that Ales assumed was, once again, blood. Saws, small knives, and…

No, he thought, suddenly. No, not weapons. Tools. Surgical tools.

He knew Davos was a healer. He’d known it all along, heard the stories of how Davos was a talented healer. Gods, he’d even came to Kings Landing to deliver The Queen’s babies.

No, perhaps it hadn’t been what Alesander thought it was. The blood, the tools, the notes. It was research. It was healing. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible, misjudgment.

The realization hit him hard as if he had been struck in the face.

He made Davos feel ashamed. He’d made Davos think that he was afraid of him. He’d hurt Davos, just as everyone who spoke terrible things about him tried to hurt him.

That was why he yelled at him. Why he didn’t explain.

His own words came back to him. “I’ll care for you. Always.”

Ales had broken that promise to Davos. He’d been so afraid, he’d went against his words. It was all ruined now, all Alesander’s fault for being a terrified fool.

Alesander swallowed hard, trying to keep the rush of tears down, but to no avail. Defeated, and exhausted, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his head in his arms.

He cried.

[davos-allyrion]

The echo of his voice still clung to the air when the door slammed shut. The silence afterward was unbearable. The West Wing was a tomb, stone swallowing sound whole, as if it had long waited to drink down the last of him. Torches guttered low, shadows stretched long across the flags, and Davos stood amidst them, chest heaving, throat raw from the shout.

Five moons. Five moons of a fairytale he had no right to live. Five moons of pretending he could be something other than butcher, heretic, shadow of a man. Five moons of tricking himself into believing he might be worthy of Alesander’s laughter in the morning, his steady hand at night.

Now the illusion was over, shattered in a single look.

And gods, he could still see it: the terror in Alesander’s eyes.

Not anger. Not confusion. Fear.

Fear, as if he were nothing but the monster whispered about in drunken tales. Fear, the same look common folk bore when he came for their kin with priest’s smile and butcher’s blade. Fear that said plain: I see you now. I know what you are.

His mind coiled in on itself, tearing him open from within. Was this not always inevitable? That sooner or later, Alesander’s gaze would pierce the veil and glimpse the rot beneath? Love was only borrowed time, only grace he had never earned. What was he thinking, what madness had told him he could cradle light without blackening it?

He remembered, with sudden, jarring clarity, the quiet, almost imperceptible moment he had stolen from himself. Alesander bent over a notebook, sunlight catching the ink, each stroke deliberate, each word a secret whispered to a world Davos had not yet been allowed to enter. The way his curls fell across his forehead, the subtle purse of his lips in concentration… it lodged itself in Davos’ chest, stubborn as a splinter.

Davos had lingered under the pretense of attending to papers, fingers busy, eyes pretending not to see. But he could not look away. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache that had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with curiosity. Something sharper, more consuming, had taken root.

The thought had come, a quiet, dangerous tremor in the mind: I am in love with him.

He had tried to bury it, to turn his mind back to the rhythm that kept the thoughts at bay. But every movement of Alesander’s pen, every upward glance in thought, shifted the world beneath Davos’ feet, and he could not find solid ground again.

He moved without thought. The pestle still lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling. Work was what he had left. Order. The bite of steel, the rhythm of scrubbing, the mindless ritual that kept the rot at bay. The bath still steamed faintly, the stink cloying in his nostrils. If he didn’t scour the saws, the blood would rust them. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would eat through the stone. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend Alesander hadn’t looked at him as if the man he knew was already a corpse.

But his hands betrayed him. They shook too much, fumbling rag and cloth. When he tried to scrape dried gore from a scalpel, it slipped, slicing the heel of his palm. A clean, deep cut. Blood welled dark and hot. Davos stared at it, then laughed.

The sound was hideous. Mad. A jagged bark torn from his chest. Of course. What else could he expect? Devils belong in hell. What was he doing, trying to cage an angel?

His thoughts circled like carrion crows, each darker than the last. Alesander had touched his hair like it was worth touching. Whispered to him like he deserved gentleness. And Davos had repaid him with bone saws and chains. What was love from a monster but another form of cruelty?

The laughter bent him double until it broke into sobs, raw and wrenching. He pressed his bleeding hand to his face, smearing red across his skin. Pathetic. A grown man, a lord, in his nightclothes, crying like a child among the ruins of his own making.

A voice in his head mocked him as he scrubbed the floors: ‘you clean the blood as if the filth is in the stones, not in your veins.’ He wrapped his wound in linen, clumsy and crooked. He looked at his hands and thought: they would never be clean. Not even if he boiled them down to the bone.

By the time the floors were scrubbed and the doors locked, his body ached. His face was swollen, eyes raw, hand clumsily bound in linen. He wandered until Larra found him. Her gaze darted from the bandage to his ravaged face. She raced forward, hands quick, reaching to tend.

“Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head. His voice cracked, too thin. “It’s ruined. I ruined everything.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I scared him.” The words fell heavy, bitter.

“Scared who?”

He wanted to lie, but the truth forced itself out, ragged and broken. “Ales.”

Her brows knitted, confusion soft as her voice. “Why?”

His throat burned. “Because I love him.”

The words left him flayed. Saying it aloud made it real, unbearable. He pressed a hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. He wished he could swallow the admission whole. He wished he could die and wake as something else.

A flower, perhaps. Something simple. Something Alesander could pluck, keep in a vase by the window. Something worthy of his touch.

Larra’s hand brushed his arm. “Then tell him,” she urged. “Tell him you love him.”

“It’s useless,” Davos whispered. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Did he say that?”

He clawed at his hair, pain sharp as he tugged. How could he tell Alesander he had earned the devotion of a killer? That he wanted to beg him not to go where he could not follow? Drag me through hell, but stay where I can see.

“Last night,” Larra murmured, “when the migraine had you near mad, he was there. He never left your side. He soothed you. If you can’t trust your own heart, then trust his.”

The words struck like a hammer. He froze. His mind spun. The cool cloth, the voice low and steady, the fingers combing his hair.

Not a dream. Not a poppy-sick illusion.

Before he could think, he was running. Faster, faster, tearing through the halls toward Alesander’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Inside too little was disturbed. Clothes folded. Coin pouch untouched. Panic slammed into him.

Gods. Alesander was out there. Alone. And it was his fault.

Davos didn’t care that he was half-dressed, bleeding through his bandage. He tore through Godsgrace, demanding answers, until they pointed him to the docks. To the ferry.

Arron, the ferry captain, shifted uneasily. “The lad seemed heartbroken, milord.”

Davos shoved a gold bracelet into his hand, voice cracking. “Give me your quarters. Just—just give me a chance.”

It took too long to find him. Faces blurred past. Bows, whispers, startled stares at their lord running half-mad across the deck. And then, Alesander.

Hunched on the far side, shoulders bowed, face streaked with tears. The sight broke him entirely.

“Ales—” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, seizing him by the elbow. “Don’t run. Please—don’t.” His words tumbled desperate, uneven. “Come with me, just come, I can’t—” He dragged him into the captain’s quarters, hands shaking.

The quarters were dark without the oil to burn, moonlight making its way through a small window. Arron was a good man, grateful enough not to ask questions, well paid enough to keep people from interrupting them.

The door shut. Davos reached for Alesander’s face, brushing away tears with his sleeve. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice fraying. “All this because of me. I never meant it—I never wanted you to see—” His breath hitched. “I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry.”

When words failed, he fell to his knees. Head bowed, chest heaving, clutching at Alesander’s legs

With the cold gnawing at his bare legs, Davos felt like a lamb offering its throat to the blade. Whether Alesander chose to be the shepherd or the executioner, Davos’ neck was already bared, exposed, and waiting.

“I love you…” The words slipped out, raw and unbidden, and Davos wished he could claw them back, bury them in the recesses of a dream. “I don’t know how to love, not properly, but I feel it here, in my bones. I’m rotten, Alesander. You’ve called me great, brilliant, even beautiful… but no one else sees me that way. To them, I’m a vulture. A scavenger.”

Davos’ head dropped to Alesander’s belt, and he wished the pressure of it would leave a mark, a scar to remember this moment by. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense Alesander’s hand rising, slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for a feral creature poised to bolt or bite. Davos was certain he would know Alesander’s presence even blind and deaf. He thought he would recognize the space between them, the quiet tension in the air, the way Alesander reached for him before their skin ever touched. And when they did—when Alesander’s fingers finally curled around his shoulders, gently prying them apart—Davos knew he would carry the memory of that touch into his dreams.

He already did.

Now, as Davos looked up, regret pooled heavy in his gut. Alesander was beautiful like this, his face illuminated in the dim light, blonde hair catching the glow, freckles scattered like constellations, his eyes glimmering with something unspoken. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he were choking on the weight of his response, the inevitability of rejection.

Davos wondered, briefly, if Alesander feared him. He would sooner sever his own hand than harm Alesander, but Alesander was too clever to mistake a lynx for a housecat. The thought made Davos’ grip on Alesander’s hips slacken. He would let go. He would let Alesander leave, if that was what he wanted.

“I’ve killed more people than I can name,” Davos confessed, his voice low and trembling. “I don’t feel enough guilt to purify me. I’d kill again. I’m selfish, Alesander. Greedy. I want you all to myself. I’m jealous—jealous of everything and everyone that’s ever kept you from me. Jealous of the men who’ve had you, jealous of the men you’ve had. Jealous that they’re not me. Jealous that they’ve traced your freckles in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I’m… pathetic. Rambling. Love has made me a coward.”

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart poured faster, uncontainable. He’ll leave. He’ll despise you. He’ll see the madness, the ruin, and he’ll turn away. Yet the words came anyway, bloody and bare, dragging his soul into the open.

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his throat, and he dropped his hands to clutch at his knees. His skin felt cold, but his body burned, feverish and raw. What a selfish, wretched little thing his heart was, demanding Alesander join him in this hell.

“I love you,” he repeated, the words spilling out like a plea. “I’ll love you if you stay in Godsgrace for the rest of your days. I’ll love you if you walk away right now. I’ll love you if you marry someone else, if you build a life far from me. I’ll love you if you decide that sharing my loneliness is enough.”

On his knees, dressed in threadbare pajamas and stripped of dignity, Davos prayed harder than he ever had to the Seven.

For once, it wasn’t atonement he sought.

Only Alesander.

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

Davos was going to be the death of him, surely. But he would be happy about it.

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

[alesanderpenrose]

The square had been busy and bustling at this hour with people trading and buying things. Though it was terribly chaotic, Alesander loved it. He loved exploring this place, he loved meeting new people and peering at items that caught his eye. Items he could bring back for his family members, or Davos, if he was feeling brave enough.

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

Finally, three, Ales needed to pick out an outfit. And fast.

[davos-allyrion]

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

“It’s fine…” Davos lied. “You’re drunk… just drunk.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Waiting for the night to finally arrive had made Alesander restless.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

His story was a tragedy at every turn, it seemed. Never a fairytale.

[davos-allyrion]

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

To make it easier for Davos to stop loving him.

[prince-vis-targaryen]

Literary madness

Starter with @davos-allyrion

Viserys had insisted upon it. A self-proclaimed bookworm and already known in courtly whispers as "The clever prince," he’d been reared on histories and books since he could speak.

And this? This academy was an opportunity, a way to gain knowledge without exiling himself to the citadel and Vis fully intended not to waste a second.

They were meant to be finishing a passage from The History of the three daughters and translating it, but Violet had tossed her quill down and was now glaring at him as though he had insulted her entire bloodline.

“I am right,” she said, nose wrinkling in that way she does when she’s trying not to smile. “Lady Serenna wasn’t naïve, she was deliberate. She wanted her husband to be caught with the wife of the lord of Selhorys. It gave her the leverage she needed to seize his lands.”

“She cried for a week in her letters.” Viserys folded his arms, leaning back against the cool stone wall. “And she burned her wedding cloak. That’s not the behavior of someone plotting. That’s heartbreak.”

“It’s called camouflage, Viserys,” she said. “You of all people should know that women have always worn grief like armor. If she’d smiled, they’d have called her a harlot and hung her for treason. But she wept, and they pitied her, and then—oh look at that—three months later her husband dies of spoiled oysters.”

“You think she poisoned him?” Vis tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway, weak and traitorous

Violet lifted her chin, defiant “She paid the cook. I’m certain of it.”

Viserys sighed, defeated, pressing a hand to his forehead like a maester overstressed. “Why do I even argue with you? You’re never wrong. Even when you are, you’re not.”

She grinned then—triumph, pure triumph—and leaned closer across the scroll-strewn desk. “That’s because you always argue with your heart and not your head, my prince......... and I’m right.

“You usually are.” Vis leaned in, lowering his voice. “But just this once, maybe consider the possibility that you’re arguing with me not because I’m wrong—but because you like it when I get flustered.”

She blinked, startled for a moment. Then her mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Flustered? You? You’re a Targaryen prince.”

“Exactly. And I am completely at your mercy.”

She laughed then—quietly, reluctantly—and reached out to tug a loose thread on Viserys's sleeve—and before her hand could curl around his like it had last evening —the door creaked open.

Davos Allyrion stepped inside, a stack of parchment essays in one arm, his brow rising ever so slightly at the scene. He said nothing of our closeness, only gave us both a look that was half amusement, half warning.

Viserys coughed, straightening his spine. “We’re ready to return to the translation, ser.”

But he could feel Violet’s foot nudging his beneath the table. When he glanced at her, she mouthed poisoned oysters.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had been satisfied so far with the progress of the Sandstep Scholars Program. Satisfied, and, if he was being honest, quietly proud. What had started as a notion, dismissed by some as idealism bordering on folly, had begun to take root. Nobles from the Vale, the Reach, and even the North had sent their curious letters. Soon, once the freeze was over, Allyrion ships would come to carry the students to Godsgrace, where sun-warmed stone and open skies would be waiting for them.

Until then, the children had only him. And he intended to work as if he were the sum total of their library, their maester, and their protector combined.

The program had been conceived to break something brittle and cruel in the bones of the realm, the notion that learning belonged only to those born into it. Sometimes he wondered if that made him too indulgent, but then he reminded himself that indulgence wasn’t dangerous when wielded alongside knowledge.

The program existed to break something cruelly entrenched in the bones of the Seven Kingdoms: the belief that learning belonged only to the highborn. Here, it belonged to everyone. Flea Bottom gutters and marbled halls alike, they would all learn together. Ignorance, Davos believed, was a more insidious poison than war; it was slow, patient, and merciless. If he could teach them to read the world, to think beyond the walls they were born into, he could change that.

Viserys was sharp. He always had been. And Violet was determined, relentless. A fine start. A very fine start.

He had set them to translating The History of the Three Daughters while he took a meeting with a lord keen to enroll his daughter in the program. By the time Davos returned, the air in the study was taut with something that was not quite hostility but not quite friendship either, two young minds locked in an argument neither truly wanted to win.

From the fragments he overheard, Violet was holding court on Lady Serenna’s supposed poisoning of her husband. He almost smiled; she was wrong about the culprit, but her reasoning was nimble and her conviction impressive.

“I’ll tell you this much,” Davos said, setting down his stack of essays. “The lord in question died with sores about the mouth. The maids remarked upon it, and I can tell you it’s a common sign of mercury poisoning. Slow doses, given over days. His mind began to go before his body followed.”

He let that settle before adding, “I doubt it was his wife. No. My coin would be on his brother, who spent a great deal of effort trying to marry her after the fact.”

Violet’s eyes lit in that pleased, I-knew-there-was-a-plot way he had seen before. He allowed himself a private smirk. These children, so eager to argue, so ready to leap to conclusions, would learn, if nothing else, how to examine evidence rather than emotion.

“Now then,” Davos continued, shifting the topic before they could start debating murder methods. “We’ll be bound for Godsgrace soon enough. Tell me, what do you know of Dorne? Of the river and the palaces? What are you expecting? What are you afraid of?”

As they answered, he watched them, too closely, perhaps. There was something there between them, a lean toward one another, a comfort in their shared space. Too close for what he thought he knew.

Wasn’t Viserys the one with a fondness for that boy… Zachery, was it? Did Violet know? Did it matter?

He caught himself before the thought could wander further. He had no business dipping his fingers into children’s affairs, no matter how curious the dynamic. Love—his own—had the habit of painting the world in warmer tones than it deserved.

Best to leave them to their studies, their debates, and their small conspiracies. Gods knew they’d have enough to learn soon.

[the-pearl-of-the-realm]

Grin and Bear It

An open starter for the @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood RP

The taunts sounded harsher and hit sharper than they usually held the power to impact Rhaena after all these years and her no longer-new found seat in the Princess of the Realm's place in the Court's first gallery. They weren't new nor unusual, the same fare that had led to her infamy in responding to the cruelty of what was then still her uncle's court with the assurance that, "I like to smile at people who don't like me."

An airhead around one corner, a nuisance around the next, her mũna assured her since the day she first came under the eyes of the Red Keep, "whoever has a problem with you? They are the one with a problem and your existence is never warrant for an apology." Rhaena had always embraced the sentiment, tested its limits, pushed to its logical extreme, worn the brightest parts of her personality as armor because then there could be no doubts about who likes her for exactly who she is and whose opinions needn't be considered at all.

They hurt worse today than any throne-side tittering had in a long time, though. Perhaps it was because of how anxious she'd been and how hard it had driven her to work since the freeze hit, or because the ensuing short tempers towards the home she felt no choice but to love seemed so unfair, maybe it was simply that in the face of such awful circumstances Rhaena was surrounded by friends, planning endless parties and two weddings, happy because she had never felt more grateful for what she had and could turn into even more to share with others. The past weeks she had, as Rhaena at her best loved and at her core couldn't help herself, offered all she had in abundance; her joy, her care, and her brightness. Only for the onlookers above her to hiss at her delicately presented display with sneering responses.

"We can only hope marriage might instill some maturity in her yet."

"Though it's still beyond me why the Prince-Hand picked her at all. Lady Vaella shares the same Valyrian linage with a better nature by far and Lady Daisy is leagues smarter with the inheritance he lacks if Prince Aemond was so insistent on someone as heedless as himself."

"A babe will settle her in time, they always do, she'll scoff and say motherhood is only a matter of love and without care or notice to how much of ourselves we give away to our children she'll diminish just the same, and we will all be better for it."

There was no escape, even as the session drew to a close and Rhaena tried to involve herself in anyone, anything else, snippets of gossip echoed every way she turned.

"Celebrating as if we're not all trapped here..."

"Speaks of gala planning and glitter to her projects without a care to the broader world, much less how she comes across..."

"Well, I heard the wedding's been delayed be cause he doesn't intend to go through with it at all..."

"Not a single thought towards how all that gold spent on those pink dyes from Myr could feed a village by the bottle through this whole freeze."

The words so blatantly about her there was no explaining them away ached from the reminder of how precisely how low people could think of her crashing back into the peace of mind she so carefully cultivated against the awfulness that lurked about court she had seen it drain the shine out of far too many a pearl and the brightness away from even those best known for their light. The assurance not all of them were certainly slanders of Rhaena herself didn't make them hurt any less when all that meant was knowing taunts not just about her but the girls she held closest to her heart were being passed around as petty entertainment in the tension of the freeze.

She needed to get away, be free of the judgment so all consuming it drowned out her own thoughts, and find something to put her mind at ease enough that the next time she opened her mouth to speak she'd be able to do anything besides sob until she was sick; certain the affair had reduced her to childhood neuroses she'd finally been fortunate to grow out of at twelve nearly a decade later. It was easier to slip off than most would expect, the halls were crowded, Rhaena knew the castle by heart, and a rare advantage of her short stature had always been the ability to easily weave through a crowd.

She'd be nearly back to her rooms before her friends noticed she was gone, Lacey, Cerelle, and Tyshara would get annoyed at each other's respective boys and in short order the guards for having no clue where she went, then Gysella and Berena or Joffrey and Harry would interject they should be far more concerned about Aemond if something was truly amiss, and then someone out of the bunch would take it on themselves to be the voice of reason and say they should check her room. Other times, once whatever collection of her friends ended up worried made it back to Rhaena's apartments she'd had piles of presents or lavish tea parties waiting for them, the surprises were just part and parcel to being beloved of the Princess, and all was quickly forgiven.

She could do the same now, it would be smaller than some other times, but if she gave an order for sweets, pulled out a few hobby gifts she kept saved for hard days, and broke out all of her soft toys she could acknowledge the day's harshness, call for them to celebrate each other in the face of it, and she would once again be lauded for her grace under pressure. Rhaena was so tired though, only able to focus on not allowing for sobs to echo through the corridors as she walked along, and overwhelmed even by that effort by the time her door clicked shut.

Before she could even begin to try and calm herself down or turn her emotions into efforts towards making this all better, she'd climbed onto her bed, grabbing one of the largest pillows out of its pile and finally allowing herself to cry the tears that had been threatening to choke her since she was still in the throne room. She lost track of time after that, lost in the emotions flooding her system until a knock sounded on the door some time later.

"I'm very busy!" Rhaena called out, a choked response driven by muscle memory and no better words to simultaneously convey please leave me be and please tell me you don't mind waiting while you barge in anyway, then a familiar voice echoed back...

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had been halfway through sorting an incoming shipment from the Torentine when the whisper reached him, a slip of paper from one of his men in the gallery, folded neat, pressed into his palm like a bribe. Three names. Four choice phrases. The kind of poison people liked to dress up as wit.

He didn’t need to read it twice.

It wasn’t that he liked court—he despised it, truth be told—but Rhaena was good business, and Ales had been after him for months to “make more friends. Real friends. Not just people you owe coin to or threaten.” He’d laughed it off, until he’d seen the look Ales gave him. The one that meant, I’m not asking you for you. I’m asking you for me.

So now here he was, outside her chambers, knocking like a proper lord instead of kicking the door in.

By the time he reached the threshold, he’d already decided the order he’d deal with the wicked tongues: a gambler, a smuggler’s kin, and one too proud to see their own ruin coming.

Her voice came through the wood, thin and frayed at the edges. Busy, she said.

A lie. And a poor one.

He stepped inside without waiting for leave. Candlelight pooled gold over silks and shadows. She was curled on the bed, still as porcelain, stripped of the quicksilver grin, the restless hands forever tangled in some absurd project, the warm, maddening voice that could talk him into things he’d sworn he’d never do.

Davos had seen men laid bare before; pride gone, defenses down, left with nothing but the quiet of their own breathing. Rhaena was not broken, but there was a fragility to her he wished he’d never had to see.

He knew better than to try patching it with empty words.

“I know what they said,” he admitted. No point pretending he didn’t have ears and eyes everywhere. “Every word. And I know who said it.”

Comfort wasn’t his trade, but promises were. And some promises, he kept in blood.

He crossed the room, trailing his fingers along the carved bedpost like testing the edge of a blade. “If I were still the man I used to be, they’d be gone already. A lesson clear enough for the rest to read. You’re lucky I’ve learned patience.” A pause. “Or unlucky. Depends how you feel about blood in the halls.”

She didn’t look at him. He didn’t press.

Instead, he dragged a chair close to the bed, the scrape of wood against stone filling the silence. He sat between the door and what mattered most.

The gambler would be easy. A few stacked games, debts called in by the wrong creditors, and he’d vanish along with his voice. The smuggler’s brother could be undone with a single report to a captain who owed Davos a favor. And the proud one—ah, that would take finesse. Pride was slower to rot, but the slowest poison always worked best.

He remembered the last time he’d sat here: Rhaena at her vanity, powder dusting his skin like frost while she painted his face in warm colors. He’d let her, because it kept her smiling, and because some part of him, one he’d never name aloud, liked the way her hands steadied when she worked on her trade.

The candle by the bed guttered low, scenting the air with warm wax and faint perfume. Outside, the corridors murmured with the restless shuffle of court.

He would stay until it eased.

Not out of mercy, habit. He guarded what he valued, and just now, that meant guarding Rhaena.

His friend.

Three names. Three plans. And all three would learn the same truth: in this city, no one was untouchable—not to him.

“I’m not good with words,” he said at last. “Nor people. You’ve noticed. But…” I’ve met someone who’s worn the edges off me. “I can cook. I can paint your hands as I paint mine. I can let you paint my face. And I can promise you this: I won’t let you suffer alone. So don’t waste your breath trying to push me away.”

[mearchy]

my favorite genre of fictional character is like "i am terrifying to almost everyone, i'm very good at killing, i can endure anything, i've become exceptionally good at playing into my reputation, and if you try to give me positive social interaction i will react with confusion and cower in a corner like an abused animal. and i may try to shoot you. but there is also a chance i may imprint on you like a feral dog receiving its first loving touch! good luck."

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[alesanderpenrose]

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

Davos was going to be the death of him, surely. But he would be happy about it.

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

[alesanderpenrose]

The square had been busy and bustling at this hour with people trading and buying things. Though it was terribly chaotic, Alesander loved it. He loved exploring this place, he loved meeting new people and peering at items that caught his eye. Items he could bring back for his family members, or Davos, if he was feeling brave enough.

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

Finally, three, Ales needed to pick out an outfit. And fast.

[davos-allyrion]

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

“It’s fine…” Davos lied. “You’re drunk… just drunk.”

[sackoflower]

don't move. i'm coming over to chew on you

[anya-royce]

A Lord, A Look, A Lie

"We'll be going home in a few weeks," Mother announced.

Anya looked up from where she was reading. Ryella's chambers at home had many chairs dotted around for visitors (mostly family) to take a seat on, and she'd worked to make sure that it was the same in the Red Keep.

"Home?" she echoed.

"Yes, home. I dread to think of the state of Runestone with Alester in charge, and I don't want to spend winter away from your father. I've made all the arrangements, and I'll send servants to help you pack." Ryella stepped back from the mirror hanging on the wall, admiring the capelet she'd comissioned from the Head Dressmaker of the Red Keep, Perianne Lannister. It was pretty, in Royce bronze with runes embroidered along the edges in black thread which matched the dyed fur it was trimmed with.

Turning to her daughter, she added "Perhaps we can come back in the spring, if you are well enough. We can bring Henrietta as well, perhaps try and find her a husband?"

Anya nodded once, going back to her book.

The Red Keep's library had exactly one book by Maester Elysar, and it was the most dry read Anya had ever encountered. It was about the plants that used to grow on the Valyrian peninsula. The subject matter was interesting, and given Valyria's connection with magic the herbs mentioned were probably used in spells, but the way Maester Elysar described things seemed to suck out any enjoyment that could be found. It took her a week to get through the tome, and Anya would admit that she used it to send herself to sleep at times.

She looked for codes, letters drawn too thick or odd markings in the margins. Numbers that didn't belong or strange symbols. Even potential odd phrasing that could lead to something else being said.

Nothing.

Even with the little book of codes she'd borrowed, Anya found nothing.

Even the information on the herbs was null, the book described most of them as being entirely exclusive to Valyria. As such, they probably went extinct in the Doom and even then, as far as she knew, King Jaehaerys's ban on sailing to the ruins was still in place.

To make things worse, she couldn't go back to Davos and ask about these things, since he'd left court just before she finally accepted that there were no hidden codes in the herb book. According to gossip, he was going back to Godsgrace to see how it was holding up. It took weeks to travel anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, it had taken a month to travel from Runestone to King's landing with her mother after all. But weeks turned to months, and as time reluctantly dragged itself by, Anya grew impatient. She wrote many letters asking for advice, but burned them before she could send them in a moment of weakness. She needed help, but did not want to give away how desperate she was. Would Davos retract his offer to take her to Godsgrace one day if he knew she could not even do this one thing?

Anya did not know, and did not like the risks involved in finding out. She would wait, try and figure something out on her own back in Runestone.

Alright, so that hadn't exactly worked out.

The freeze was unpredicted. Overnight, the roads in and out of King's Landing became clogged with snow. Storms raged in the seas around Westeros, so the harbours were crowded with ships. Driftmark and Dragonstone were accessable due to proximity, but it was risky.

Mother was restless, stuck in the capital relying on ravens from Selyse and Gunthor to keep her somewhat sane. Anya read them after her mother, finding them on her desk. It was rude to snoop, but she knew for a fact that her mother would tell her nothing if something went wrong. The updates were short, scrawled in tiny letters to try and convey as much as possible without weighing down the ravens too much.

Willam had elected to remain at Runestone while Henrietta went to stay with her Shett cousins. Arwen and Alester had had a fight and were not on speaking terms currently. One farm suffering a spectacularly bad harvest before the freeze was recieving special aid, much to the displeasure of their neighbours. Father was suffering with a chesty cough, but still insisted on going for walks every morning with his hounds. A guard had been found asleep on duty and Gunthor had fired him, alongside levelling the unfortunate man with a hefty fine.

Anya hungered for these scraps as a starving dog does for bones. She had thought being isolated while sick was lonely, but it felt especially jarring to be surrounded by people and yet still locked out of the loop on her own family.

Still, there was one bright spot, and that was the return of Davos Allyrion. He'd gotten back to court just two weeks before the freeze set in. Anya had tried not to act too excited - her mother still had absolutely no idea about any of this, and she was trying to avoid reeking of desperation - but she found herself looking for him, wondering when they would meet again.

Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, Anya looked to the window and wondered if it was time to go to bed after she'd finished what she was currently doing. She'd snuck into the kitchens during the Hour of the Eel, and it was now the Hour of Ghosts.

Initially, she had come looking for herbs to soothe coughs and chest pain, intending on finding a way to send her own raven to Runestone with a vial of her concoction and a note explaining what it was. Then, after gathering them, she had decided she might as well make the mixture, since she was in the closest she would get to a perfect place for it.

Peppermint, ginger, tumeric and marshmallow root. All fairly common remedies and easy to find in a kitchen. She was frustrated that she hadn't been able to figure out how to do more, but she would do what she could.

The herbs had steeped for five-and-twenty minutes, and Anya planned to leave them for five minutes more, just to make sure they were truly done. She would then sift the remains of the herbs out of the mixture, and pour what was left into bottles small enough for a raven to carry.

"Go to the maester in the rookery tomorrow," she told herself as she wrote it on the same sheet of paper that contained the recipe for the tea. It was an innocent enough reminder, and her mother had been nagging her to take care of her health. It would be easy enough to ask for something outside of the rookery, and while the maester was distracted she would attach a vial and a note to a raven before sending it to Runestone. If the maester questioned it, she would simply say that one escaped.

Whether she could get away with a repeat performance was a question for the future, but Anya's head was already filling with increasingly more elaborate schemes.

One in particular - a convulted story about a young lordling womiting blood in the training yard - she lingered on, but before she could properly follow that string of thought, a peculiar chill pricked up the hairs on the back of her neck.

She was being watched.

Whirling around to face her observer - wooden spoon in hand ready to be pointed threateningly - Anya wasn't sure how she would explain what she was doing to a cook, or a maid, or even a noble looking for a late-night snack. However, this wasn't necessary, as she recognised who she saw in the doorway.

"Davos?" she asked, before cursing her lack of decorum. "I mean, Lord Allyrion?"

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had never cared for King’s Landing. It wasn’t only the stench—though gods, it stank of piss and soot and too many lies—but the press of it, the weight. Power clung to every stone, coiled in alleyways, muttered beneath breath. Cruelty was its own currency here, passed hand to hand as freely as copper stars.

And yet, somehow, it chafed less when Alesander was with him.

Ales made it bearable. He always had.

Davos could sleep through a storm at sea so long as Ales was beside him, breath warm at his throat, limbs tangled like roots. The stink of the streets faded when he pressed his face to Ales’s curls. Even the ghosts that haunted his dreams held their tongues when Ales whispered goodnight.

He’d never been one for poetry. He hadn’t the heart for it. But sometimes he wondered if Nymeria had the right of it. When she’d told him she meant to marry Anders, he’d asked her why. She’d smiled, soft and exasperated, and said, “Because if I don’t, I’ll go mad wanting to shout it at everyone that he’s mine. That I’m his.”

He had not understood her then. He did now.

No septon would ever bless their union. Not in the sight of the Seven, nor under any gods still listening. But Ales had loved him like a husband from the first kiss, and Davos, in turn, had spent every waking hour trying to build a future the man deserved.

A future that would make Ales proud.

The Sandstep Scholars Program had begun as a dream. A mad one. Free instruction, open to all, from Dorne to the Dreadfort. For children born in brothels and castles alike. Davos had poured every coin he could spare into the fire, and every name he’d earned into the wind, just to keep the dream aloft.

It was dangerous. Seditious, some said. A world where knowledge was no longer hoarded by lords and maesters. A world where smallfolk were taught letters before they were taught to maim.

To Davos, ignorance was the realm’s true rot. If war was fire, then ignorance was the spark that always lit the pyre.

When his informants whispered that the little Royce girl had stayed behind at the Red Keep, Davos hadn’t waited. He’d left Ales with a kiss and a scroll tucked into his coat, just in case.

And now… here she was.

A girl in a quiet kitchen, her face lit by the dying glow of the hearth. Sweat glistened at her brow. A pot simmered low beside her, herbs steeping in the broth. Her hands were ink-stained and callused, and she gripped a wooden spoon like it were a blade.

He watched her from the shadows for a moment. Something stirred in him, low and aching. Not pride. Not grief. Something gentler. The look of someone trying not to care too much, failing, and aching all the same.

She reminded him of himself. More than she ought to. And yet—

The gods had never meant for him to have children, and Davos had long since made his peace with that. He would not ask for what nature would not grant to him and Ales. Yet if ever he dared picture a daughter, she might look something like this: sharp, stubborn, and trying so hard to heal the world with what little it gave her.

When she turned and spotted him, her eyes went wide.

"Davos?" she blurted. “I mean, lord Allyrion?”

He smiled gently, already shaking his head.

“No need for titles,” he said, voice low. “Not between the likes of us. Davos will do.”

He stepped closer, careful not to startle her, and drew a scroll from the inner fold of his coat. He set it down beside her scribbled notes.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he added, as he set the scroll down beside her notes. “I thought you might be the sort of girl to appreciate this.”

The wax bore the sigil of House Allyrion, the Hand of The Gods, as henna stained as his own, but the words within were older than any name. Truth has no master, and knowledge no single steward.

“The Sandstep Scholars Program,” he explained, nodding toward the scroll. “It’s… well, it’s the first of its kind. And I’d like you to be part of it.”

He paused. Watched her.

“You don’t have to decide now. But I think you already know the answer.” A soft breath of a smile played at his lips. “You’re already doing the work.”

The scroll read as it follows:

To all those of noble mind and curious spirit, let it be known:

In a realm long governed by steel and silence, where knowledge has too oft been hoarded like gold and truth buried beneath banners and blood, there arises now a lantern in the dark.

The Sandstep Scholars Program, born in the sunbaked halls of Godsgrace and watered by the mercy of its founder, seeks to bring the gift of learning to all children of Westeros, regardless of name, coin, or station. Its purpose is to extend instruction beyond the traditional bounds of birth and wealth, offering free schooling to all children, whether born in noble halls or humble homes.

This program is centered in Godsgrace, where former brothels have been converted into halls of learning. Here, maesters, scribes, and septons serve as teachers, funded through the personal support of Lord Davos Allyrion.

In addition to the central school, a corps of traveling instructors, known as “Sand Maesters,” journey across towns and villages. They bring scrolls and books and teach reading, writing, arithmetic, history, and practical skills to children wherever they gather.

Priority is given to orphans and children of uncertain parentage, including those born in brothels or camps. Noble families are encouraged to send their wards to learn alongside commoners, promoting shared knowledge across social lines.

Curriculum Overview

Let no child go without the tools to think, speak, and survive. The following disciplines are taught across the realm, adapted to need and region:

I. Literacy & Language

Common Tongue Mastery: Reading, writing, oration, and practical documents (fables, trade slips, and legal forms).

Tongues of Trade: Braavosi and Volantene dialects offered in coastal towns.

The Runes of the Rhoynar: Instruction in ancient Dornish scripts to rekindle lost heritage.

II. History

True Histories of the Realm: Accounts from rebel quills, peasant tales, and banned books.

Legacy of the Rhoynar: The voyage of Princess Nymeria, the cities of rivers, and the myths of water-magic.

The Targaryen Doctrine: An examination of fire, dragons, and the rise of power.

Women of War & Wisdom: From Queen Visenya to Princess Meria, studied without veil or varnish.

III. Civic Knowledge & Law

The Laws of the Realm: Crown law and local rule alike.

Coin & Contract: Practical lessons in counting coin, reading deals, and spotting deception.

Justice & Ethics: Mock trials, debates, and essays on right and wrong in a flawed world.

IV. Mathematics & Economy

From Numbers to Kingdoms: Arithmetic for trade, farming, and finance.

Geometry & Engineering: Foundations for bridges, homes, ships, and siegecraft.

The Economics of Power: How silver feeds soldiers, and how debts raze dynasties.

V. Natural Sciences

Astronomy & Navigation: Star-lore and wayfinding, for sailors and farmers alike.

Herb-lore & Healing: Midwifery, mending, and the making of poultices.

Maps of the Known World: Geography, climates, and hidden riches of the land.

Farming in Truth: Crop rotation, composting, and waterwise growing.

VI. Combat Ethics & Self-Defense (For youths of ten years and more)

Discipline of the Blade: Sword, spear, and bow; not for glory, but for guard.

Enduring the Siege: How to last when the walls close in.

The Weight of Killing: True stories of war’s toll, shared so none may strike blindly.

VII. Philosophy & Inquiry

The Art of Reason: Rhetoric, logic, and the courage to question.

The Many Gods: A fair survey of the Faith, the Flame, the Old Ones, the Drowned, and more, taught not to command belief, but to sharpen discernment.

VIII. Electives & the Soul’s Refinement

Art, Music, and Movement: Drawing, storytelling, traditional dance, and the freedom to imagine.

The Sandstep Scholars Program belongs not to kings nor keeps, but to the future.

May this knowledge serve all who seek it.