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Ser Davos Seaworth had always seen himself as a patient man. Someone able to endure silently, with an extraordinary capacity to adapt to every situations, whatever the odds might be. But that was before becoming Sansa Stark’s Hand. Or rather, that was before the Queen in the North began to receive new scrolls every day, each begging for her hand in marriage. Each morning, the same ballet: Ser Davos would rise, break his feast and attend his duties. Maestre Wolkan would bring him the ravens that Winterfell had received during the night and every single one of them was from a Lord (Southron, Northern, even one from Essos one time) who somehow believed himself to be worthy of the Queen. At first, their dedications had been the subject of many laughter, especially from Lady Sansa. She would read them at the beginning of each one of their council, and Ser Davos had to admit that these little lords had guts to ask to become the husband of perhaps the most powerful woman in all Westeros. But as moons went by and the requests grew more and more abundant, this situation became quite a painful one for the Hand. Not only did he had to read them – and frankly, some of them were quite ridiculous – but he also had to give an answer to those poor men. At first, he would always ask the Queen for her opinion on her suitors but she would always give him a polite smile, a gentle nod and a “No” that accepted no argument. Ser Davos finally realised that the woman he had pledged to serve would not marry, at least not to those who sought to become her King.
“They only want my title, Ser Davos.” She had once said to him as they were sharing a cup of ale after a feast where several Lords had attempted to prove to their Queen that they would make an ideal husband, by engaging in a combat of drinks. Because apparently, to be a good King and a good husband, a man would need to hold his liquor. “They only want the Queen and the crown, not the woman who wears it.” Her voice carried a sadness that no young woman should ever have to experience and Ser Davos had not known what to say. “I do want to marry, I do want to have a family, to fill these halls with little wolves. But if I ever am to wed another time, it will be with someone I love.”
That had been enough of an answer for the Hand and the topic had never been brought up again. But as the second anniversary of her coronation approached, the royal wedding – or rather, its inexistence – became a subject of conversation amongst the smallfolks and lords alike. To say that the Queen in the North was loved by her people was an understatement, as she ruled with justice and kindness, and her actions during the war had earned her the title of the Red Wolf. Still, her subjects wanted to see their beloved monarch happy and most of them believed that happiness would come to her in the form of a husband. A tournament was to be held, both to celebrate the second year of Sansa’s reign and the return to Winterfell of its hero: the Queen’s younger sister, Arya Stark. Ser Davos was particularly content to see the young woman return to her homeland, knowing the joy it would bring to her sister and a certain Baratheon Lord who would also visit the North for this occasion.
It was a fortnight before the tournament and Ser Davos was under the impression that every raven in Westeros had been sent to Winterfell, carrying a marriage proposal. The scrolls had invaded his solar, his desk crumbling with parchment and his head was aching after longs hours of reading and writing. This had to stop. Davos wanted his Queen to be happy, he truly did. In many ways, he looked at her like he would have if she had been his own daughter. And there was only man whom he considered worthy of marrying his daughter. He also knew that Sansa was not indifferent to him, he had seen the lingering gazes that she had exchanged with her then brother-now cousin before he left for Dragonstone, the way his grey eyes would lit every time he mentioned her name while he was away, how she treated him with a delicacy and tenderness that reminded him of the manners his own wife would use with him. The problem was that both of them were complete idiots. The Queen in the North had issued a pardon and an invitation for the Lord Commander to come to Winterfell but whenever she visited the Wall – hoping to see him – he was away. After the first year of disappointment, she had stopped insisting and he had never made the slightest move towards her. The whole situation was ridiculous.
“Ser Davos?”
He was interrupted in his thoughts by the voice of Arya, who stood in the doorframe of his solar, a scroll in her hand.
“Please don’t tell me it’s another proposal.” He groaned, waving his hand as an invitation to enter.
“From the Dornish Prince himself.” Arya chuckled, handing him the parchment before taking a sip of the cup of Ale that sat on his desk. “He’s rather charming, I have to admit. Says that he would gladly abandon his throne and his crown to become her – how do he put it already? Oh yeah, her devoted slave.” Her laughter became raucous. “I’d die to see Sansa’s face when she reads the entire paragraph he wrote about her lips.”
“We need to put an end to this nonsense.”
Ser Davos suddenly rose, making a few scroll rolling from the table to the floor. He couldn’t care less and started to gather his things: he grabbed the sheath of his sword and slit it inside before lacing it to his tunic.
“Where are you going?” simply asked the young girl, watching as he put his cloak on.
“I’m going to steal a husband for the Queen.”
***
It had been quite some time since Ser Davos had rode through the gates of Castle Black for the last time and when he dismounted his horse in the courtyard, he was unsure whether he was going to find what he was looking for. But he was there, as if he was waiting for his old friend. Except the look of surprise he sported revealed that it was not the case.
“Ser Davos?” The two men quickly jaunted towards one another and Davos greeted him with open arms and a warm smile.
“Hello, Jon Snow.”
“What are you doing here?” He looked astounded and before Davos could answer, his facial expression went from pleasantly startled to fully concerned. “Is Sansa alright?”
Jon was trying to control his voice but Davos knew what laid underneath the armour of indifference he already wore few years ago. This man was a son of ice and fire, although he pretended to be cold, those who knew him well could see the blaze that was locked inside his heart. Especially when Sansa Stark was involved.
“She will be soon.” Davos left him no time to understand what his mysterious sentence might meant before putting a hand on his shoulder. “Pack up your things, I’m stealing you.”
“You-what?” The Onion Knight almost regretted not bringing Arya Stark given how dumbstruck the Lord Commander of the Night Watch now looked.
“I am stealing you.” Ser Davos reiterated, unable to disguise the smirk that was now forming on his lips.
“I’m… Flattered, Ser Davos, but I’m not really interested.” Jon had switched from stunned to amused and he was now chuckling.
“Not for me, Lord Snow.” Davos erupted into a heartily laughter and a few heads turned towards them “You’re pretty but not enough to tempt me.”
He winked at Jon – who still had no idea what was going on – and started to walk to the Lord Commander’s chambers, well at least, where they used to be for the few months he spent at Castle Black.
“I’m here as Hand of the Queen in the North. I’m stealing you for her.”
“Sansa sent you?”
He felt Jon’s hand grasping his arms and turned away to face the young man. His brows were slightly frowned but his stare were full of the same light that had sparkled in the Queen’s eyes when she had first come to Castle Black after her coronation to deliver the pardon herself: hope.
“No, the Queen is unaware that I’m here.” Jon’s shoulders suddenly lowered “You’re a surprise for the anniversary of her coronation.”
The Lord Commander looked at him, and Ser Davos could read the confusion in his piercing grey eyes.
“Your cousin is lonely, Jon.” He put an emphasis on the word cousin, although he knew that whatever feelings had blossomed between those two, it had started before they learned the truth about Jon’s parentage. “She misses you. She needs you.”
“She deserves better than me.” His voice was barely a whisper and for a second, the Lord Commander made way for the young man underneath the armour.
“I think she’ll be the judge of that.” Davos patted his shoulder with a gentle smile. “Besides, I’m tired of spending my morning reading scrolls written by dimwits about the curves of my Queen’s body.”
The deep groan that escaped Jon’s throat was enough of an answer for Davos.
***
It was the day of the tournament and if Sansa had to be honest with herself, she was not thrilled by the perspective of the festivities. Years ago, she yearned for jousts and knights and feasts. But the little girl with songs in her head and hope in her heart had become a woman who knew too well the hideous truth that could hide behind a pretty facade. Plus, she was well aware that this special day was also an occasion for numerous lords to express their interests in her. And she was growing more and more tired of their constant harassment. Peace, that what was she wanted. Peace, and the company of the only man who seemed to flee her.
“You look radiant, your Grace.”
Ser Davos had bowed to her when he had met her inside her chambers, offering his arms to escort her to the plains where the tournament would be held. She was wearing the dress that she had sewn herself for her coronation, two years ago. Her mother used to tell her that clothes told a story and it was her own and her family’s that Sansa had carefully crafted for a few moons. The scales for her Tully mother that turned into the fur of her father and Robb’s first sigil, the branches of the weirdwood tree that formed her bodice as an homage to Bran, a cloak made to mimic Arya’s, beaded leaves falling from one sleeve to remind her where her true home was, the fur around her collar to remember Rickon, and Lady, and Jon…
I wish Jon was here.
She missed him. More than she would show. Much more than she cared to admit. But he would not answer her letters and whenever she had visited the Wall, he had been gone North, probably avoiding her. She couldn’t blame him. She even understood him. She had betrayed his trust but if she had one chance to explain her actions to him, she would explain how everything that she had done or said was only for him, only for his safety.
“Thank you, Ser Davos.”
She gently smiled at her Hand, wrapping her gloved hand around his arm as they made their way out of the Keep. The Onion Knight was probably the only man she trusted around her. Although he had still not cared to explain why he had been gone for a few days without telling anyone where he was heading. And since his return, he would sometimes disappear during the day, and as mysteriously reappear. Sansa had even asked Brienne to follow him, worried that her most trusty advisor might had found himself in a dangerous position. When Brienne returned that night, she simply decreed that Ser Davos was perfectly fine and that his strange behaviour would soon make sense. Given the smile that her Queensgard had tried – and failed – to hide from her Queen, Sansa had guessed he was probably planning a surprise for her. And she wasn’t entirely sure it was a good thing.
Let’s just hope it’s not a Dornish Prince tied to my bed.
The tournament was a sight to behold: every Northern house, large or small, had sent a son to compete – and also, Sansa assumed, to charm the young Queen. But she decided that she would not let such matter ruin her day. After all, the feast was held in her and Arya’s honour. And since it had been way too long since the Stark sisters had enjoyed a moment of freedom such as this one, Sansa was determined to enjoy every second of it. As the day went by, different houses combatted against one another – no one was to be killed, Sansa had made sure of that. But if she recognised almost every sigils that flew in the Northern sky – Mormont, Manderly, Glover, Forrester and even the white falcon of House Arryn and the silver trout of House Tully as both Edmure and Robyn had come – there was one knight whose house was unknown. His armour was made of the whitest silver that Sansa had ever seen but there was no delegation accompanying him and he did not seemed to carry a sigil. Her interest for the unknown knight grew in intensity as he defeated every single adversary that rode against him, with a grace and a determination that left the crowd gasping and cheering.
“Do we know who this is?” Se discreetly inquired with Brienne, who was sitting right beside her. The Lady Knight, who had decided not to fight because that would have quite surely meant a striking victory for her, slightly shook her head. But there was something in her gaze that made Sansa wonder if she was telling the truth.
When the final duel began, Sansa felt her whole body trembling with anticipation. The mysterious knight was to compete against the elder son of Lord Hornwood, a young man named Daryn who had shown more than once his admiration for Sansa. She did not dislike him either but somehow, she found herself rooting for his opponent. She wanted the white armour to win, she wanted it so much even though she ignored his name and his face. And when he did, when he threw Daryn Hornwood to the ground, earning the cheers and applauses of the entire gathering, the Queen in the North clapped with her people.
The winning knight dismounted his horse and, without ever removing his helmet, kneeled before the royal grandstand. Silence fell over the plains as he rose, reaching for the winter rose that he had sheltered in the inside of his bodice and handed it to the Queen. Whispers came as the Red Wolf took the present that was offered to her by the White Knight, whispers of another tournament, another Stark girl. And whispers became shouts when Jon Snow removed his helmet, revealing his black curls to the North.
He came.
Sansa didn’t know what to do: she felt a wave of emotion crashing against her ribcage and breathing became difficult as she contemplated the familiar face that stood before her. Tears were already forming at the edge of her eyes and she ignored if she was strong enough to hold them back. She wanted to throw herself into his arms or maybe to throw something at him, but she did none of these things. She simply smiled, holding the flower to her nose so that she could smell her delicate perfume.
“Welcome home.”
The feast that followed was so glorious that any man, woman or child who had witnessed it would later consider it one of the greatest days of their life. Not only the North was ecstatic at the sight of Jon Snow, who they had named King long time ago and who was still considered a hero amongst them, but the pure joy that gleamed from their beloved Queen’s face was as dazzling as the Winter Sun itself. There were no defaults to be found that night: everyone was merry, and as soon as the music started, the Lord Commander rose with the Queen in the North by his side, inciting everyone to follow them. Even the young Arya Stark spun around with Gendry Baratheon, even Ser Brienne of Tarth agreed to follow the Free Folk Tormund Giantsbane after having perhaps too many cups of ale. For the first time in many years, the North left the war and the death behind. That night was a celebration of the livings, of hope and of love. And Ser Davos found himself to be much less bothered by the many ravens that flew to Winterfell after the feast, as they all carried scrolls of congratulations for the impending wedding between Sansa Stark and Jon Snow.