Even so many years past his death, Davos Seaworth remains one of Westeros' most famous mariners. It cannot fail to fascinate that a man born so low should rise so high as to be dubbed the unofficial Lord of the Narrow Sea.

THE YOUNG LION

"You holding steady there, lion cub?"

Willem Lannister took a deep breath. "I am well, my lord."

His Northern minder seemed amused, clearly disbelieving him. Still, he had been kinder to him than he had expected from such an uncouth man. Eddard Karstark, the third son of House Karstark and his future goodbrother, was a closer fit for the savage Northmen he had once imagined than he would like to admit aloud.

Willem could still remember the feeling of it, those early days. They had marched out of Lannisport with gleaming gold armour and pristine lion banners. The people of the West had cheered them all the way to the Golden Tooth. One farmgirl from a nameless village near Oxcross had especially favoured him one night, something he would not soon forget.

Then onto the Riverlands they had went, covering themselves in glory. Victory after victory. Even if he had not fought himself, being deemed too young, he had still felt a part of some great endeavour. He was living by the principles that had been drilled into him from infancy, serving House Lannister and securing its future. He had swelled with pride to wear the proud lion sigil on his chest, like his own father and his father before him.

So long ago, now. Those boyish dreams had come to a terrible end at Riverrun. The screams of that terrible battle still haunted his nightmares. He and Martyn had just been squires, held back at the camp polishing and ferrying as the men had fought and died on the banks of the Red Fork.

The sights he had beheld that day would never leave him. He could still imagine clearly the face of the man who had held a sword to his throat, his crazed and bulging eyes and the boil on his nose. Only the timely arrival of Lord Glover had spared the lives of him and his twin, marking the beginning of their long imprisonment.

Now everything had changed. Most of the family was dead. His own father and elder brother were bound for the wall, he had been told. Now he, whose highest ambition had never been greater than a knighthood and a pretty wife, held the fate of the Lannister name on his shoulders.

His twin's life was dependent upon him, his remaining relatives at Casterly Rock too. Whatever Westerlords were left that hadn't proven themselves traitors were depending on him too.

So here he was. Amongst the strangest army, with men of the Reach flying the banners of a Northern king. A Lannister lion marched with them, but he did not truly lead. He was a convenient symbol of continuity, a sop to what little pride the West still had. His future goodbrother was his constant shadow, a guard as much as a companion.

Whatever his feelings as to that, he could not deny the sight before him now was one of the best of his life. On the crest of the hill, he and his small retinue were well-positioned spectators to the unfolding battle.

The Ironborn had been besieging Crakehall by land and sea. Even he could see that their conduct was haphazard, their leadership incompetent. Their siege camp was disorganised, the approaches unfortified.

Lord Rowan's Reacher cavalry had come thundering out from the treeline, tearing the Ironborn apart like damp parchment. It was a slaughter of the kind he himself had experienced at Riverrun, but he felt no sympathy. Lannisport had been his home, and he knew the fate that had befallen it at the hands of men like these.

Eddard Karstark's meaty hand slapped him hard across the back. "Look there, cub! They're sallying from the castle. Much as Lord Blackwood did, when we pasted you at Riverrun."

Karstark was grinning, fond as ever of reminding him of the Northern victories in which he had partook. Still, he was right. The Crakehall men were sallying forth. Men besieged were likely to grasp at any salvation, no matter its origin.

The infantry, mostly Rowan men flying their Goldengrove banners, had what was left of the enemy host surrounded. Between the cavalry, the foot and the Crakehall sally they were utterly doomed.

His minder let out another of his booming laughs, pointing out to sea. The longships had weighed their anchors. No doubt fleeing back to one of their other nests that had come to despoil the coastline of his country.

Their landward compatriots died in droves. Few pled for mercy, and none received it. The men of the Reach hated the squids as much as any other kingdom with a coast on the Sunset Sea. It took no great effort to rouse an army for the cause of killing Ironborn.

As the fighting died down, one of Lord Rowan's squires had galloped over the ridge to them. "Lord Lannister, my Lord Rowan requires you." he said simply.

Willem nodded. He knew his role well enough by now. He had already played it at Cornfield, the castle of his mother's family. And at Greenfield, with less success.

He followed the squire down the ridge and across the bloody field. Karstark and the rest of their small group followed close behind.

He drew up his horse before the ongoing parlay, and tried to steady his nerves. Across from Lord Rowan stood the Crakehall men. He vaguely recognised the form of Ser Tybolt, the heir to Crakehall. The Lord of Crakehall now, perhaps, as Lord Roland was nowhere to been seen.

He played his part. He did it for what was left of his family. "I am Willem Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West. In the name of King Robb of House Stark, I bid you to give me fealty as rightful your liege lord. I command that you join your strength to ours with the purpose of restoring the peace of our land, and freeing its people from the monstrous yoke from which they suffer."

There was a long silence. Ser Tybolt stared back at him, then turned to one of his men. A brother, perhaps.

He turned back to them. Another long moment of silence, and then he shrugged. "Better than the Ironborn, I suppose."

DAVOS

Davos had long learned to read the moods and behaviours of Stannis Baratheon, as best as anyone could hope to read such a mercurial man. He could see the building rage of his liege.

It would not take a particularly learned man to tell you that the Hand's current report would do nothing to allay this. "These are fearful tidings, my lords, Your Grace. The picture the Stark boy and his Tyrell lackeys present to us is one of all-out assault.

Lord Rowan leads an army up the Ocean Road, conquering the West in the name of one hand-picked usurper. Ser Brynden Tully leads another into the Vale in the support of yet another, no doubt hoping to rally that kingdom against us. Most of all, the boy himself has marched out of Highgarden with 50,000 men. A fearsome host, and one that appears bound to cross into the Stormlands within days. Rumours swirl of another host of Rivermen near Maidenpool bound to sack Duskendale."

Lord Caron was never shy to speak his mind in war council, or one to underestimate his own influence. "That is more than enough men to contend with every loyal holding in the Stormlands. How many men could be raised to face this army? Not near enough, for all of our strength is here."

Ser Addam Marbrand, who Davos trusted not a bit, was keen to subject them all to his own priorities. "It is not just a matter of the Stormlands, my lords. You may speak of potential threats, but my home already lies burned. Surely the West deserves a matter of priority."

Davos did not react to that, but found he sympathised with Lord Caron's angry scoff.

Lord Velayron made his own voice heard through fits of coughing. He had been unwell of late, struggling to recover from the injuries he had taken in the storming of the city. "What of the disloyal? My captains tell me that Lord Selwyn is massing men and a small fleet on Tarth, and it is no secret he has yet to swear fealty. From Stonehelm too, our ravens go unheeded. Rumours fly that the Swanns have made some pact with the Stark boy, that he will find their swords at his disposal as he invades the Stormlands."

The Hand wasted no time in trying the steer the council back to his own favour. "Your Grace, we should sever one of Ser Balon's hands and sent it to his family, to warn them of the fate that would befall him if they should turn against us."

Lord Caron laughed derisively, as Davos knew he would. He had been witness to Caron and Alester Florent venting their growing mutual disdain for weeks now. "I swear you are more fox than man, Florent. Sly, cruel and devoid of sense. As of now, the Swanns may be against us. Do that, and they will be against us for sure."

"What is your answer then, my lord? Shall we sit here hidebound as traitors plot our demise? Or is that what you truly seek?"

Any reply the enraged Lord of the Marches might have made was lost to them, for Stannis had lost his patience. The King smashed his fist down onto the table, stunning them both into silence. Davos let his face show nothing, but the other lords were not so serene.

Stannis gritted his teeth, and spoke with such uncharacteristic quietude that Davos strained to hear. "I will not sit here in this accursed city waiting to die like some rat."

The King rose from his chair and stalked around the table. "This I know, a King who sits while his castles burn will not be King for long. The Stark usurper imagines he has already won this war, but I was fighting to hold Storm's End while he was swaddled by his mother."

He walked back around to his small throne, but did not sit. He placed his palms on the table and spoke. "Let us desist from this timorous slither in which we are presently engaged. We will combine the strength of the Stormlands, the West and the Narrow Sea and march out for battle. If victory were a matter of pure numbers, Mace Tyrell would be our King.

If the Swanns will not do their duty, I shall smite off Ser Balon's head. Any other man who harbours disloyalty in his heart will meet the same fate."

The King's declaration was greeted by silence. Anyone who thought to belay him had no chance to, for Stannis was quite finished with them all. "Go, all of you. The decision has been made, see to it. Lord Davos, you stay."

Davos had made to rise, so he sat back down. He ignored the look he got from Lord Florent. Any favour the King showed to a grasping lowborn such as he was irksome to the Hand.

All of the other worthies filed out, leaving him alone with the King. Stannis' eyes were glued to the painted windows of the council chamber, though they showed nothing of importance. Davos waited, it was for the King to speak first.

"Speak your mind." he said simply.

Davos nodded. "I understand the need to march. Your Grace is right to say that he must make an effort to defend the Stormlands, lest its lords turn disloyal. I cannot forget that but months past these same men refused all of our entreaties in favour of Lord Renly. I stand ready to fight alongside Your Grace.

I worry, though, for the city. I was born here, in a place of low repute. I know its streets, and I know its people. I know how they think, and how they feel. I have seen before how in King's Landing, it takes very little to turn problems into crises. Your Grace, with all respect, this is just such a time. Since the incident before the Sept of Baelor, since the death of the Red Woman, there has been great disorder.

Just last week the Florent men-at-arms had to be called upon to suppress disorder. The city overflows with fools, thieves and false prophets. If all of our strength marches to the south, I fear for what will happen here."

After a long pause, the King acknowledged his words. "There is truth in what you say. You will command the city in my absence, Lord Davos."

He went rigid with shock. "Me, Your Grace?"

"Who else? It is as you say, you know this city. You know its people, and its darker edges. I trust your loyalty. Point me to a man who better possesses each of these attributes, and I shall permit you to relinquish this task to him. But I believe no such man exists."

"I am true to Your Grace, and ever shall be, but I cannot deny my trepidation. With which men shall I maintain order? Who will deign to follow me?"

Stannis dismissed his concerns. "I shall leave you 500 men-at-arms, and I will see them sworn to obey you. You have already lost 3 sons at the Blackwater, so I shall leave you your eldest boy and Devan too, though I will be sorry to part with so diligent a squire."

Davos still had his doubts, but there was no way he could refuse. "I will do as you command, Your Grace."

"You shall. You are the man best placed to manage that rogue Salladhor Saan, Lord Davos. And to wrangle all of the other mercenaries and sellsails that attached themselves to my cause. This is most vital, for there is an addendum to your instructions of which you must speak with no one.

If I should fall in battle, it is you I wish to take charge of the Princess Shireen. You would take her back to Dragonstone and serve as her Regent. You would marshal the sails of the Narrow Sea for her rightful claim, protect her, and never allow her to lose sight of her duty."

Davos felt moved to tears, that his King would trust him so. "I will do all that you ask, Your Grace. I will hold this city, and I shall protect the Princess. Still, you are the rightful King of Westeros. I remain confident that you shall emerge victorious."

Stannis said nothing.