𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝
(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)
After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.
He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?
Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.
Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.
His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.
Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.
The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.
If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.
The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.
Still, they had their suspicions.
“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”
“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”
It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.
Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.
The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.
“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.
He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.
From the shadows, a figure stirred.
Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.
The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.
Quite friendly.
The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.
Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.
Then, he smiled.
“And what’s your story, then?”
The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.
How wrong he had been.
The ship stank of mold and other wet things. A nobleman’s prison, this was not.
Edrick had taken to naming the rats. Most were some variation of his family's names with at least three named “Benjen” out of spite. There had also been an “Bob the Fat,” for no particular reason. He’d run out of names two days ago and now simply called them things like “Bastard” and “Other Bastard.” They were easier company than the pirates, who were uniformly idiots, and who he had decided to punish by being absolutely insufferable.
At present, he was lying sprawled out along the length of the bench, half-singing, half-humming in a tone high enough to fray nerves.
"Ohh the Bear and the Maiden fair, went off to braid her golden haaair—" He added a warbling trill just to really sell it.
“Shut up,” someone yelled from above deck.
“You shut up!” Edrick yelled back, then cleared his throat and tried a more dramatic key: “SHE SAID NOOOO MORE GOLDEN HAIR—”
The lock clicked.
He froze mid-note, eyes narrowing as the pirates dragged someone in and tossed them like a sack of turnips into the cell across from him.
“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edrick snapped, sitting up and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “He doesn’t look like a friend. He looks like someone’s overcooked goose. Is that blood on his collar? That’s blood, isn’t it?”
The door slammed.
Heavens, Edrick thought with biting sarcasm, another man to share my damp corner and delightful company. He wrinkled his nose and shifted just slightly, eyeing the new prisoner with sharp, narrowed eyes. The man didn’t smell like fish or blood yet, which was an improvement. That wouldn’t last.
Silence settled thick and fast, save the sound of dripping water and the creak of the ship. Edrick tilted his head, eyeing the man where he lay, slumped and tied and—smiling?
The gall of him.
He scooted forward slightly, dark eyes narrowing. The new prisoner looked like a storm had chewed him up and spit him out wearing silk. There was something too composed about him, like he wasn’t nearly as rattled as he ought to be. That made Edrick curious. And suspicious.
“And what’s your story, then?” the man asked.
Edrick made a show of sniffing disdainfully.
“Well, my new friend,” he said, mockingly formal, “you’ve landed in the worst possible company, I’m afraid. You’ve interrupted my audition for pirate captain. I’m this close—” he raised bound fingers an inch apart, “—to usurping that squinty fool upstairs. I even challenged him to a duel, but they said I ‘wasn’t taking it seriously’ and that ‘dueling in a nightshirt is improper.”
The fuckers thought his singing was improper too. Something about a sellsail’s daughter and the baker’s cat. Rousing, inappropriate, and sung with such enthusiasm that the pirates had threatened to sew his mouth shut. Again. Empty threats. They liked the sound, he thought. Or maybe they were just too lazy to make good on them.
“I was meant to return home to Winterfell weeks ago,” he said breezily, “but nooo, I had to stay behind in the Riverlands for the sake of friendship, which was clearly a mistake. I got distracted—” a pause, brief and bitter— “by a squirrel, I think. Or a particularly judgmental crow. And now I’m here. Honestly, I blame my brother. He was supposed to keep me focused and well behaved, and now look—rotting in a glorified wine barrel with some knock-off Lyseni who smiles too much.”
A rat skittered across the beams above, that one was called Rhaenya the fourth.
He stretched lazily, though his wrists were raw and sore while hoping his hardest that none of his childish fear could be seen on his face. “If you’ve come to steal my spotlight, I’m afraid it’s already crowded. Me, the rats, the ghosts of my dignity, and now you. Very little space left.”