ꫂ ၴႅၴ MISERY LOVES COMPANY ꫂ ၴႅၴ
(Starter with @abby-the-writer)
Davos did not flee. He did not run. He did not do anything that could be misinterpreted as fear, because Davos Ryon Allyrion was afraid of nothing.
He merely moved with haste—yes, haste, perfectly respectable and dignified haste—toward the only safe harbor in this fucking hall.
The Red Keep's dining hall was a battlefield in its own right, but at least here, he could maneuver. No Joffrey. No Berena. And, gods be good, no fucking Cerelle. His pulse still ticked at his throat, the remnants of his near escape coiled in his gut like a sickness. But then, there. A face he knew. A familiar face.
She was younger than him, just a girl, really, but there was something about her that steadied him. She did not demand. Did not expect. He had only ever known her through ink and parchment, through brief mentions in Oscar’s letters—Monty and Jaunty got into the pantry again, Thistle pissed in Father’s shoes, Bread was lost but found in Mother’s sewing box—but he knew her, in the way one could know a ghost they had never seen. And now, standing alone amid the swirl of courtiers and laughter, she was the first person in this wretched hall he wanted to speak to.
Davos dropped into the seat beside her so suddenly that the lady next to Abby startled, nearly spilling her wine. He ignored her. He inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply, and said the first thing that came to mind.
“I find myself thinking that pumpkin does not belong in pies.” His jaw tightened, but he forced his voice light, conversational. “Perhaps in a soup. A stew. But in a pie? What are we, Reachmen?” He waved a hand, dismissive, as if this—this fucking pumpkin pie—was the gravest insult he had endured tonight. “Yet they keep serving it. With honey. With cinnamon. It’s unnatural.”
He flexed his fingers. He had almost sliced lord Benedict’s hand, when the man’s wife reached out, tracing her nails along his wrist like Davos was something to be plucked and shared between them. We’d enjoy you together, she had purred, and Davos, for all his patience, for all his carefully practiced restraint, had nearly shattered her delicate, jeweled fingers.
So now he sat here. Beside Abby. Talking.
“I made a cherry pie last month.” The words felt foreign, like speaking another tongue. “I sent the recipe to your brother, though whether he made it or threw it away, I cannot say.” He tilted his head, considering her. “You prefer cherry over pumpkin, yes? You have some sense?”
She gave no reply. Of course she didn’t, she couldn’t, because Davos did not allow her to speak. He could not allow her to speak. If she asked him why he had all but sprinted across the room, if she said something soft and kind in that voice of hers, he would snap, and his mind would return to Benedict and his wife, and then he would have to kill someone, and then the Queen would be upset, Oscar would have a terrible first impression of him, and Davos had no desire to disappoint his friend by being executed.
So he did not stop. He kept talking.
“I had a pie the other day. Almond and honey, topped with sugared rose petals.” He huffed. “It was awful.”
A brief pause, as if even he could not believe the nonsense spilling from his mouth. Then, he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his dark curls.
“You see, I was tricked. I had reason to believe it was lemon. I like lemon.” He needed to stop. If Joffrey was here, he would be laughing by now. Instead, Davos pressed the heel of his palm against his temple, as if trying to physically push the words back in, then went on anyway. “Lady Cerelle was the one who recommended it. Cerelle, who would rather eat sugared violets than actual food.” He shook his head. “Cerelle’s cats like me more than she does.”
He shifted slightly, leaning in, close enough to see the flicker of recognition in Abby’s eyes.
“You know Lady Cerelle Lannister, don’t you?” He let himself smirk, the expression easy, familiar. “She claims I’m lying, but the beast practically leaps into my lap. Her orange one, specially.” A beat. “You’ll tell her I’m right, won’t you? When she asks.”
Seven hells. He was babbling.
Davos, who hated pointless chatter, who had once driven a knife through a man’s palm for wasting his time with empty pleasantries, was sitting here prattling on about pie.
A pause for air, finally.
“You’re a welcome sight, Abigail.”
He did not clarify why. Did not explain. But the words hung between them like a thread, thin and delicate, and Davos, for once, was grateful to have someone to catch onto it.
