Dragonstone, Stone Drum Tower Side Hall
The stone steps were not long, yet Davos felt as if every step was treading upon fragments of memory.
He was led to a quiet small hall, where a faint fire in the hearth dispelled the chill seeping from the stone walls.
Shireen sat stiffly on a small stool by the window, looking up when she heard the movement.
Upon seeing the newcomer, she froze instantly, her small hands unconsciously clutching the hem of her skirt at her knees.
"...Uncle Onion?"
Her voice was as light as a breeze, carrying an irrepressible tremble.
Davos's throat tightened.
He had seen shipwrecks, seen severed limbs and remains on the battlefield, and seen the most hideous waves in a storm, yet he had never felt so helpless before a child.
He slowly—trying not to appear like a prisoner or a defeated general—knelt down a few paces away from her, bringing his gaze level with hers.
"Princess," he spoke hoarsely, struggling to make his voice sound steady.
Shireen's tears welled up all at once, carving shimmering trails across her grey-scale-covered cheeks.
"My father... my mother... they..."
Davos remained silent for a moment before finding words he could speak.
He could not lie, nor could he sugarcoat it.
"They went... with great dignity," he finally said, every word like coarse grit scraping against his throat.
This was all Stannis deserved, and perhaps the only true consolation.
The young girl lowered her head, her shoulders trembling slightly. "They say you are leaving too."
Davos nodded.
"I am going north. To The Wall, to take The Black and become a brother of the Nights Watch."
"That is very far... and very cold."
"It is far," he admitted, "but it is the only place suitable for me now."
His hand moved slightly within his sleeve, his fingertips touching a piece of smooth, warm boxwood.
It was a small wooden stag he had carved for Shireen. With its gentle antlers and diminutive form, it was a toy he had intended to give the child for amusement once the war subsided and everything was stable.
The stag was the Baratheon sigil, and like her, it was quiet and harmless, never meant to be embroiled in slaughter.
With just a lift of his hand, he could pull out the carving and press it into her palm.
But as his fingers tightened, he stopped.
Shireen was no longer a princess of Baratheon.
She had been stripped of her surname, stripped of her sigil, stripped of everything related to that Crowned Stag.
She had to live under the gaze of the Targaryens, growing up quietly in this black fortress of Dragonstone.
Giving her another object carved with a stag was not warmth; it was a burden, a hidden danger, a sentiment that might bring calamity upon her one day in the future, a reminder to her—and to others—of the bloodline that had been severed.
Some sentiments were better taken into the wind and snow, into the eternal night north of The Wall, to be frozen there.
They were not fit to be left with a child who needed to forget the past in order to live well.
Davos loosened his fingers, letting the small carving slip quietly back into the depths of his sleeve, pressed against his palm.
He raised his mangled left hand—the hand with only a thumb, ugly yet having once performed service for her father.
Very, very gently, he touched her arm, like a clumsy, incomplete embrace.
"You must live well, Princess Shireen," he looked into her tear-filled blue eyes, his voice low but firm.
"Not for Baratheon, not for the iron throne, not for anyone. Only for yourself. Eat, read, bask in the sun, and... grow up well in the wind."
Shireen finally couldn't help it and cried out softly. "Then... will you come back?"
Davos was silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head and stood up.
"The Nights Watch... does not go home, Princess."
He turned away and did not look back.
Some farewells need not be spoken; some protections are meant for a lifetime from the very beginning.
The door closed softly behind him, sealing the faint light of the hearth and the girl's stifled sobs within.
Shireen sat where she was, staring at the empty doorway, murmuring softly over and over again:
"Uncle Onion..."
The wind at the Port still carried the scent of sea brine and the lingering smell of gunpowder.
Davos Seaworth changed into simple grey homespun clothes and stood at the prow of a mid-sized galley.
From start to finish, he never looked back at that black stone island that had swallowed everything he was loyal to.
Over a thousand of Stannis's remnants, who had also chosen to go north rather than surrender and accept other fates, boarded the ships in silence, their faces weary, their eyes hollow or filled with the numbness of resignation.
The sails rose slowly, catching the wind blowing from the northwest, as they gradually sailed away from the Port toward the mainland and further north.
There were no cheers, no farewells, only the monotonous sound of oars cutting through the water and the occasional cry of a seagull passing overhead.
A heavy silence, belonging to defeat and exile, shrouded this small Fleet.
Aegon stood on the high terrace on the north side of the Stone Drum Tower, overlooking the entire Port, his dark red cloak snapping in the sea breeze.
He quietly watched the Fleet carrying Davos and the last of Stannis's followers shrink until it became a string of tiny black dots between the sea and sky, finally vanishing into the mist on the horizon.
There was no obstruction, no spies sent to monitor them secretly, and certainly no children or confidants kept as hostages for leverage.
For some, burying their loyalty is more decent than commanding it; for some, letting them go is safer than imprisoning them.
Davos had chosen The Wall, choosing to spend the rest of his life guarding the kingdom's coldest border to atone; this was already an ending.
As for those Soldiers, letting them be consumed at The Wall in battles against wildlings, the bitter cold, or even more terrifying things was far more valuable than keeping them in the south as potential instabilities or prisoners who needed to consume food.
"Your Grace, you just... let them go?" a Bloodsworn guard beside him asked in a low voice, a hint of undetectable doubt in his tone.
After all, those were over a thousand Soldiers with combat experience; even if defeated, they were not without threat.
Aegon's gaze remained calmly fixed on the distant, empty sea.
"They are going to The Wall," he said faintly, his voice audible intermittently in the sea breeze, "not a mountain stronghold where they can stir up a rebellion."
He paused, then turned to another logistics officer standing by and commanded, "Tell those taking care of things below that there is no need to deliberately restrict or treat Shireen differently."
"Her food and lodging should follow the standard allowance for an ordinary noble girl." He turned back, his gaze profound.
"She no longer has a surname, no family, no throne. She is now just a child who needs to grow up on this island."
The wind ruffled his silver hair and also dispersed this calm yet unquestionable command.
King's Landing, Red Keep
The Small Council was urgently summoned once again, the air thick with a sense of unease and agitation even heavier than before.
Ministers hurried through the cold corridors hung with tapestries of past kings, conversing in low voices, their expressions each grimmer than the last.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, and Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, walked side by side slightly ahead.
Varys's rounded face wore a perfectly measured look of concern, his voice kept very low:
"Who could have imagined it? Stannis... such a Fleet, such a man known for his stubbornness, actually... perished in an instant outside Dragonstone."
"Without even making a decent splash. My earlier intelligence regarding the threat from the East seems now not to have been an exaggeration, but likely a serious understatement."
He sighed softly, with a hint of hindsight regret.
"Looking back now, Lord Tyrion's previous proposal—to temporarily set aside those... small grievances and seek some sort of understanding with Stannis—was perhaps an opportunity we missed."
"An alliance with Stannis?" Petyr Baelish's lips curled into an unfathomable slight smile.
"My dear Lord Varys, I now feel that even if we had truly sat down at the same table with that stone-headed Stannis back then, it probably wouldn't have mattered."
"Oh? How so?"
"If even a tenth of the fragmented yet horrifying battle reports that have been desperately sent back from Dragonstone are true..."
Petyr's voice dropped even lower, carrying a certain cold amusement.
"A massive Fleet far exceeding our estimates, and most crucially, those golden lightning bolts and the shadow of a three-headed dragon said to have lit up half of Blackwater Bay... How many times do you think Stannis's few ships, combined with our own pathetic naval strength, would have lasted before being burned by that 'true dragon'?"
Varys's pupils constricted imperceptibly, and he did not immediately respond.
"When I heard the news of Stannis's instantaneous annihilation..." a voice came from the side, not high in pitch.
"I nearly wet my breeches in the privy. Truly, I'm not joking."
Varys instinctively turned his head, but his level gaze met only empty air.
He froze for a second, then realized and looked down.
Tyrion Lannister had somehow walked up beside them without a sound.
The Acting Hand of the King still wore that slightly formal black and gold attire that didn't quite fit his frame. His oversized head had somewhat messy hair, and his mismatched eyes flickered with a mixture of exhaustion, cynicism, and deep worry.
"And now..."
Tyrion took short steps, but his pace was not slow. He looked up at the council chamber doors not far ahead, from which came the faint, impatient scolding of Cersei.
"I am more curious to see what brilliant, wise, and decisive solution my dear sister, the Queen Regent, can pull out of that head of hers—filled as it is with gold, roses, and... well, other lovely things—to save the day this time."
He pulled back his lips in a mirthless grin.
"After all, the shield that was Stannis has shattered. The next ones to directly face the wrath and the Fleet of that dragon will be our lovely city, packed with people but lacking any decent walls."
"I truly cannot wait to hear her wise counsel."
The three stopped talking and, along with the other grim-faced ministers, entered the council chamber, where the atmosphere was so heavy it felt stagnant.
At the far end of the long table, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister was already seated in the head chair.
She wore a magnificent crimson gown today, her golden hair styled flawlessly, but even the heavy makeup could not hide the dark circles under her eyes or the lingering agitation and fury in her brow.
Her fingers tapped unconsciously on the smooth tabletop, her cold gaze sweeping over everyone who entered—especially when she saw Tyrion, the loathing in her eyes almost turning into physical venom.
Before the meeting had even begun, the air was already filled with the heavy pressure of an approaching storm and silently growing despair.
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