Alesander Penrose

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.

Horrors is what he found in the West Wing.

His walk slowed as he took in everything, heart racing with every new thing his eyes landed on.

Blood. So much blood. Metal glinted from the fire he’d lit on the wall from his torch. It was dark in here, eerily dark. He observed metal stained with red. Sharp things caught his gaze, sharp things with more blood.

There was writing he couldn’t comprehend, his vision blurred with fear or disbelief or both.

Ales now stood in front of a pit of… something. He couldn’t even remember when his feet took him to it, just that he saw it now, and he was afraid.

So this is why I was told never to come here. He thought, barely processing it. Davos was hiding this. Hiding something terrible.

A million questions flooded his mind, none of them making sense to him. Who knew about this? What was this? Why was this here? What does Davos do here?

Davos. His Davos. The man who’d let him stay here and do what he loved. The man who’d looked at Ales without the judgment he’d come to know. The man who Ales held so gently in his arms, soothing the sickness that had hurt him.

The man who had Ales’ heart in his hands.

This was his secret.

The butcher, Ales’ mind whispered, suddenly and without warning. He had known all the rumors about Davos, and he’d ignored every single one. He’d been taught from a young age to ignore rumors, mostly from the Prince Joffrey, but it was a lesson that stuck with him.

He wasn’t above gossip, but he was above believing it. But now…

He didn’t want to believe it. To believe the worst of Davos. But his heart felt as if it was in his throat, and everything here had sent his hands into a violent shake.

What had he discovered?

Then, a voice spoke Ales’ name. Without wanting to, he stepped back, afraid. It was Davos himself.

He caught me. Or, maybe, I caught him.

Then, he spoke again. Davos said “no,” over and over again. He said it as Ales stared, unwavering eyes.

Was that confirmation? Confirmation that none of this was right, that it was a secret Ales was never supposed to learn?

Ales couldn’t even hear the rest of his words, the blood was rushing too loudly in his ears, and his eyes were too fixated on Davos himself. He tried to examine Davos, to look for any sign that none of this was real. But it was real.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

No explanation. No comfort. Nothing, except for that Ales knew that what he’d seen here was not for his eyes, and Davos wasn’t happy. Ales was frozen, waiting to wake up from this terrible dream, or for Davos to tell him something to make this all go away. But he didn’t.

Say something. Say something. Say something!

His mind scolded him, but his body did not comply. His body trembled and ached and pained, but did not speak.

The last thing he processed was Davos, yelling at him. Yelling at him to leave.

Alesander flinched hard, coming back to reality. Davos had never raised his voice at him, never once. He’d always spoken to him with a kind of gentleness that made him want to cry. Now, he did want to cry, but not out of tenderness.

His feet seemed to carry him to the door without his mind knowing.

He hid this from me. He hates me. He’s doing something terrible here. None of this is right. I need to leave, as he ordered me to.

No one had payed Alesander any mind as he left.

It was a common occurrence for him to leave the castle for town, and it wasn’t like anyone knew of what had just happened. It wasn’t as if they could see that his heart was torn from his chest, stomped on, and ruined now.

He hadn’t had the time for tears yet.

In a haste, he’d rushed to his room, grabbed his bag that he always brought to town, and left. He hadn’t taken anything else, as he didn’t think to.

A part of him wanted to leave his belongings. For Davos to see them, and to remember him. Another part of him was so confused and afraid, that packing his clothes wasn’t a priority.

Ales left and made his way to the docks. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Larra, Nymeria, Kiera, Ryon, and all the people he’d cared for.

He felt the tiniest bit of relief when he saw the captain. Arron, he recognized. A man he’d known well, one he talked to often on his visits to town. Ales had helped his son, Maron, with his reading.

Arron was the captain of the ship, which was leaving for Westeros on the morrow.

Ales approached him, meekly, trying to hide the sorrow on his face.

Arron spoke first. “Going home so soon, Penrose? My boy will miss you.” His tone didn’t make it seem friendly, but that was just how the man spoke. Ales had come to know many of the people here, in Godsgrace. Observing them, connecting with them. He had thought once that he might stay here forever. No longer was that true, he knew.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He searched in his small bag for the coin he always kept there.

The captain rolled his eyes. He looked so much like his son when he did that, Alesander thought. He would miss them. “Nonsense. But I’ll take you home.”

Alesander’s heart dropped when he realized there was no coin. He’d spent it all, all the coin he’d brought to Dorne. The rest of it was left in his room, and there was no going back now.

He could have cried right there and then. “Fuck. I- I’m sorry- I don’t-“

Arron realized instantly what was happening. He interrupted Ales, “don’t worry about it, Ser. You’ve done enough for my family. Consider us even now.”

The monotone voice was comforting, but not enough to soothe the shaking that hadn’t left Alesander since this morning. The unstoppable hurt from what had happened.

Absentmindedly, he thanked Arron, and boarded the ferry.

Other people walked about the deck, paying no mind to Alesander Penrose and his grief.

He found a secluded edge, where less people wandered, and sunk to the floorboards. He hugged his journal for dear life, finding little comfort in that.

Davos had gotten him that journal.

Feeling the wood and inhaling the salty air, it all became real suddenly. Having this time now, to think, he did. Everything came back to him.

The discovery of the West Wing. Their fight. All that he’d seen. Frantically, he revisited everything he remembered he saw.

Diagrams, so many diagrams. Ones stained with blood, ones with little notes in the margins, ones that Ales couldn’t make out. What did it all mean?

There was the vat, as well. The horrifying, vat of liquid that steamed with the scent of something Alesander couldn’t name. Something evil? Or something that he’d misjudged?

Weapons, everywhere. Ones with the rusted color that Ales assumed was, once again, blood. Saws, small knives, and…

No, he thought, suddenly. No, not weapons. Tools. Surgical tools.

He knew Davos was a healer. He’d known it all along, heard the stories of how Davos was a talented healer. Gods, he’d even came to Kings Landing to deliver The Queen’s babies.

No, perhaps it hadn’t been what Alesander thought it was. The blood, the tools, the notes. It was research. It was healing. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible, misjudgment.

The realization hit him hard as if he had been struck in the face.

He made Davos feel ashamed. He’d made Davos think that he was afraid of him. He’d hurt Davos, just as everyone who spoke terrible things about him tried to hurt him.

That was why he yelled at him. Why he didn’t explain.

His own words came back to him. “I’ll care for you. Always.”

Ales had broken that promise to Davos. He’d been so afraid, he’d went against his words. It was all ruined now, all Alesander’s fault for being a terrified fool.

Alesander swallowed hard, trying to keep the rush of tears down, but to no avail. Defeated, and exhausted, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his head in his arms.

The echo of his voice still clung to the air when the door slammed shut. The silence afterward was unbearable. The West Wing was a tomb, stone swallowing sound whole, as if it had long waited to drink down the last of him. Torches guttered low, shadows stretched long across the flags, and Davos stood amidst them, chest heaving, throat raw from the shout.

Five moons. Five moons of a fairytale he had no right to live. Five moons of pretending he could be something other than butcher, heretic, shadow of a man. Five moons of tricking himself into believing he might be worthy of Alesander’s laughter in the morning, his steady hand at night.

Now the illusion was over, shattered in a single look.

And gods, he could still see it: the terror in Alesander’s eyes.

Not anger. Not confusion. Fear.

Fear, as if he were nothing but the monster whispered about in drunken tales. Fear, the same look common folk bore when he came for their kin with priest’s smile and butcher’s blade. Fear that said plain: I see you now. I know what you are.

His mind coiled in on itself, tearing him open from within. Was this not always inevitable? That sooner or later, Alesander’s gaze would pierce the veil and glimpse the rot beneath? Love was only borrowed time, only grace he had never earned. What was he thinking, what madness had told him he could cradle light without blackening it?

He remembered, with sudden, jarring clarity, the quiet, almost imperceptible moment he had stolen from himself. Alesander bent over a notebook, sunlight catching the ink, each stroke deliberate, each word a secret whispered to a world Davos had not yet been allowed to enter. The way his curls fell across his forehead, the subtle purse of his lips in concentration… it lodged itself in Davos’ chest, stubborn as a splinter.

Davos had lingered under the pretense of attending to papers, fingers busy, eyes pretending not to see. But he could not look away. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache that had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with curiosity. Something sharper, more consuming, had taken root.

The thought had come, a quiet, dangerous tremor in the mind: I am in love with him.

He had tried to bury it, to turn his mind back to the rhythm that kept the thoughts at bay. But every movement of Alesander’s pen, every upward glance in thought, shifted the world beneath Davos’ feet, and he could not find solid ground again.

He moved without thought. The pestle still lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling. Work was what he had left. Order. The bite of steel, the rhythm of scrubbing, the mindless ritual that kept the rot at bay. The bath still steamed faintly, the stink cloying in his nostrils. If he didn’t scour the saws, the blood would rust them. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would eat through the stone. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend Alesander hadn’t looked at him as if the man he knew was already a corpse.

But his hands betrayed him. They shook too much, fumbling rag and cloth. When he tried to scrape dried gore from a scalpel, it slipped, slicing the heel of his palm. A clean, deep cut. Blood welled dark and hot. Davos stared at it, then laughed.

The sound was hideous. Mad. A jagged bark torn from his chest. Of course. What else could he expect? Devils belong in hell. What was he doing, trying to cage an angel?

His thoughts circled like carrion crows, each darker than the last. Alesander had touched his hair like it was worth touching. Whispered to him like he deserved gentleness. And Davos had repaid him with bone saws and chains. What was love from a monster but another form of cruelty?

The laughter bent him double until it broke into sobs, raw and wrenching. He pressed his bleeding hand to his face, smearing red across his skin. Pathetic. A grown man, a lord, in his nightclothes, crying like a child among the ruins of his own making.

A voice in his head mocked him as he scrubbed the floors: ‘you clean the blood as if the filth is in the stones, not in your veins.’ He wrapped his wound in linen, clumsy and crooked. He looked at his hands and thought: they would never be clean. Not even if he boiled them down to the bone.

By the time the floors were scrubbed and the doors locked, his body ached. His face was swollen, eyes raw, hand clumsily bound in linen. He wandered until Larra found him. Her gaze darted from the bandage to his ravaged face. She raced forward, hands quick, reaching to tend.

“Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head. His voice cracked, too thin. “It’s ruined. I ruined everything.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I scared him.” The words fell heavy, bitter.

“Scared who?”

He wanted to lie, but the truth forced itself out, ragged and broken. “Ales.”

Her brows knitted, confusion soft as her voice. “Why?”

His throat burned. “Because I love him.”

The words left him flayed. Saying it aloud made it real, unbearable. He pressed a hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. He wished he could swallow the admission whole. He wished he could die and wake as something else.

A flower, perhaps. Something simple. Something Alesander could pluck, keep in a vase by the window. Something worthy of his touch.

Larra’s hand brushed his arm. “Then tell him,” she urged. “Tell him you love him.”

“It’s useless,” Davos whispered. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Did he say that?”

He clawed at his hair, pain sharp as he tugged. How could he tell Alesander he had earned the devotion of a killer? That he wanted to beg him not to go where he could not follow? Drag me through hell, but stay where I can see.

“Last night,” Larra murmured, “when the migraine had you near mad, he was there. He never left your side. He soothed you. If you can’t trust your own heart, then trust his.”

The words struck like a hammer. He froze. His mind spun. The cool cloth, the voice low and steady, the fingers combing his hair.

Not a dream. Not a poppy-sick illusion.

Before he could think, he was running. Faster, faster, tearing through the halls toward Alesander’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Inside too little was disturbed. Clothes folded. Coin pouch untouched. Panic slammed into him.

Gods. Alesander was out there. Alone. And it was his fault.

Davos didn’t care that he was half-dressed, bleeding through his bandage. He tore through Godsgrace, demanding answers, until they pointed him to the docks. To the ferry.

Arron, the ferry captain, shifted uneasily. “The lad seemed heartbroken, milord.”

Davos shoved a gold bracelet into his hand, voice cracking. “Give me your quarters. Just—just give me a chance.”

It took too long to find him. Faces blurred past. Bows, whispers, startled stares at their lord running half-mad across the deck. And then, Alesander.

Hunched on the far side, shoulders bowed, face streaked with tears. The sight broke him entirely.

“Ales—” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, seizing him by the elbow. “Don’t run. Please—don’t.” His words tumbled desperate, uneven. “Come with me, just come, I can’t—” He dragged him into the captain’s quarters, hands shaking.

The quarters were dark without the oil to burn, moonlight making its way through a small window. Arron was a good man, grateful enough not to ask questions, well paid enough to keep people from interrupting them.

The door shut. Davos reached for Alesander’s face, brushing away tears with his sleeve. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice fraying. “All this because of me. I never meant it—I never wanted you to see—” His breath hitched. “I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry.”

When words failed, he fell to his knees. Head bowed, chest heaving, clutching at Alesander’s legs

With the cold gnawing at his bare legs, Davos felt like a lamb offering its throat to the blade. Whether Alesander chose to be the shepherd or the executioner, Davos’ neck was already bared, exposed, and waiting.

“I love you…” The words slipped out, raw and unbidden, and Davos wished he could claw them back, bury them in the recesses of a dream. “I don’t know how to love, not properly, but I feel it here, in my bones. I’m rotten, Alesander. You’ve called me great, brilliant, even beautiful… but no one else sees me that way. To them, I’m a vulture. A scavenger.”

Davos’ head dropped to Alesander’s belt, and he wished the pressure of it would leave a mark, a scar to remember this moment by. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense Alesander’s hand rising, slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for a feral creature poised to bolt or bite. Davos was certain he would know Alesander’s presence even blind and deaf. He thought he would recognize the space between them, the quiet tension in the air, the way Alesander reached for him before their skin ever touched. And when they did—when Alesander’s fingers finally curled around his shoulders, gently prying them apart—Davos knew he would carry the memory of that touch into his dreams.

He already did.

Now, as Davos looked up, regret pooled heavy in his gut. Alesander was beautiful like this, his face illuminated in the dim light, blonde hair catching the glow, freckles scattered like constellations, his eyes glimmering with something unspoken. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he were choking on the weight of his response, the inevitability of rejection.

Davos wondered, briefly, if Alesander feared him. He would sooner sever his own hand than harm Alesander, but Alesander was too clever to mistake a lynx for a housecat. The thought made Davos’ grip on Alesander’s hips slacken. He would let go. He would let Alesander leave, if that was what he wanted.

“I’ve killed more people than I can name,” Davos confessed, his voice low and trembling. “I don’t feel enough guilt to purify me. I’d kill again. I’m selfish, Alesander. Greedy. I want you all to myself. I’m jealous—jealous of everything and everyone that’s ever kept you from me. Jealous of the men who’ve had you, jealous of the men you’ve had. Jealous that they’re not me. Jealous that they’ve traced your freckles in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I’m… pathetic. Rambling. Love has made me a coward.”

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart poured faster, uncontainable. He’ll leave. He’ll despise you. He’ll see the madness, the ruin, and he’ll turn away. Yet the words came anyway, bloody and bare, dragging his soul into the open.

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his throat, and he dropped his hands to clutch at his knees. His skin felt cold, but his body burned, feverish and raw. What a selfish, wretched little thing his heart was, demanding Alesander join him in this hell.

“I love you,” he repeated, the words spilling out like a plea. “I’ll love you if you stay in Godsgrace for the rest of your days. I’ll love you if you walk away right now. I’ll love you if you marry someone else, if you build a life far from me. I’ll love you if you decide that sharing my loneliness is enough.”

On his knees, dressed in threadbare pajamas and stripped of dignity, Davos prayed harder than he ever had to the Seven.

For once, it wasn’t atonement he sought.

How many hours had passed, and he had just sat here? He couldn’t be sure. Maybe it wasn’t even hours, only mere minutes, and he was going mad.

People had tried to talk to him, but he’d barely noticed. After many failed attempts of conversation and asking if he was alright, every passenger decided he wasn’t worth the extra breath.

Good, he didn’t want to speak now. He wanted to waste away here, sink into the floorboards, never be seen again.

The memory of everything that happened before replayed in his mind, over and over again.

Davos, his heart and mind both ached for him, Davos. I’m sorry.

In the midst of all of his heartbreak, suddenly, he heard his name being called. Not just someone asking if he was alright, no, it was a familiar voice. It was-

He looked up, and somehow, he was there- Davos.

Was Ales seeing things? Had the sorrow and longing made him believe Davos was somehow here with him?

Clearly not, Ales decided, by the looks of the other passengers faces, and by the way Davos had grabbed his arm. Real, this was real. He came for me?

He barely had time to process anything before Davos was pulling him into the captains quarters. Davos was still in the same clothes he had been in when everything had happened. He looked frazzled, as if he had been crying, as if seeing Alesander was the only thing in the world that mattered. He had blood on him, where had that come from? Alesander’s heart hurt with more misery and guilt and things he never knew he could feel.

He came for me. In his nightclothes, in his sorrow, in his bloody bandages, he came for me.

Who had ever come for Alesander before like this?

They entered the small room, now secluded from everyone else, and Alesander felt the anxiousness rise in him again. He couldn’t tell what was happening, what was going to happen, and only wanted to apologize to Davos now, to hold him and ask him what had happened. Ales’ lips frowned in sorrow, his eyes still leaked tears he could not stop.

But, Davos wiped the tears that remained on his face, and Alesander let him. The touch was everything. He wanted to say something to Davos, anything, but Davos continued to speak. He spoke frantically, apologizing, and then…

He was on the ground, holding Ales’ waist.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

“I love you…”

He loves me.

Alesander swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was horribly painful, and more tears lingered in his eyes.

No more tears, he demanded to himself. He needed to be strong for Davos, who he was currently staring at, as he could not pull his gaze away from him. He loves me.

At some point, Ales had grabbed Davos’ shoulders, trying to steady him, needing to feel him.

Davos, who was on his knees, looked like he was saying some sorrowful prayer. He looked as if he had sinned and was confessing to Alesander who was his saint… But he was not. He confessed, but confessed his love. Love for Ales. Ales felt the grip of Davos’ hands at his hips slacken, then leave entirely. It was all so much to take in.

Ales listened. Listened, and felt his heart beat with every new thing Davos said. He memorized every word in his soul, felt every confession in his bones, and continued to listen.

He loves me as I love him.

Then, silence. Davos, on the ground, and Alesander watching him.

Alesander shook his head, realizing he had not yet said a word to what he’d just heard. Davos confessed, and confessed, and confessed, and all Alesander did was watch him with tearful eyes. It was time to confess back, to be honest for once in his life.

Slowly, he kneeled to face Davos.

Their knees touched, eyes locked on each other, and time felt as if it had stopped just for them.

Ales’ eyes shifted, lingering for a moment on Davos’ hand, bandaged and bloodied. It reminded Alesander of weeks ago, when the man in front of him had one of his hands in bloody bandages, the same as now.

Alesander had held his hand then, worried for him, then dropped the hand. He would never do that again.

He took Davos’ hand, carefully as to not touch the wound, and brought it to the left side of his chest, his heart. He placed the long fingers there there, delicately, and gently placed his own hand over Davos’. Would it leave blood on his shirt? He did not know. He did not care. If it did, he’d wear the stain proudly.

“My heart is yours, Davos.” His words came out raspy from the crying and the exhaustion, but the tenderness could not be misheard.

Then, with his free hand, he reached out, taking the other hand of his beloved that did not grace his heart. Then, quietly, but clearly, he spoke, “I love you.”

As gently as he could, and began to rub his thumbs against the rough skin of his beloved. Trying to calm the nerves he could see pouring from Davos. As if he wasn’t trembling himself.

He laughed, softly and quietly, but he laughed. “I’ve been miserable, truly. I’m always miserable, but i’ve been even worse loving you and not telling you. I’m glad you had the courage I did not.”

Davos looked so fragile, so soft in the moonlight. The darkness of the night reminded Ales suddenly of the dark room he’d found, of why the two were here now. Of the secrets between them.

“I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did. I was shocked to find what I did, surely. But, no, none of it changed the way I feel for you. You’re not rotten. You’re none of the horrible things you call yourself. I see who you really are.”

Alesander shifted slightly, feeling the wooden floorboards beneath his legs. He barely cared where they were, that they were on the floor of a ferry destined to leave in some hours, just knew that Davos was in front of him now, and that was all that mattered.

“You…” He paused, smiling, continuing to rub at the knuckles of the man he loved in front of him. A gentle smile and gentle touches. “I’ve never had someone treat me in the way you do. As if I’m interesting and someone worth caring for, as if I am good for anything. And I have seen the way you treat others, you pretend you’re not kind, but I see through you. I see the person I want the most in the world.”

A short pause, then, one to give Davos a look. A kind, soft look. One that he hoped said “I love you, I care for you, I see you,” just as much as his words did.

“But, I need you to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. No more secrets between us, no more hiding ourselves away.” For most of Ales’ life, he’d tried desperately to hide the parts of him he hated. Hide the things he did, the places he went, the vulnerable parts of him. But no longer would he with Davos. They were in this together now, the two of them.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he lunged forward and hugged Davos. He sucked in a breath, shaky and emotional. “I love you, Lord Davos Allyrion. I love you, and I don’t want to leave Godsgrace, I want to stay with you. I want to go wherever you go, because I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”

He pulled back, slowly and gently, and looked into Davos’ eyes. His arms wrapped around Davos’ shoulders, not wanting to stop touching him.

Davos’ breath caught at the words, at the way Alesander’s voice trembled and steadied all at once. He hadn’t known how desperately he’d needed to hear them until now. His chest ached, ribs too tight to hold the sudden swell of his heart. For so long, his longing had been a secret wound, hidden beneath silence. And now Alesander pressed his hand to his heart as if to say: Here. It has been yours all along.

His arms wrapped around Alesander before he could think better of it. His cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder, his lips finding the line of his neck.

The ferry rocked beneath them, boards creaking, salt thick in the night air. Yet the world outside felt impossibly far away, as though they had slipped into a secret place beyond time. Lantern-light caught in Alesander’s hair, across the pale sweep of his cheek, and Davos thought he had never seen anything so alive, so beloved.

“Let’s go home…” Davos hummed. Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling, mouths brushing faintly as if neither could bear distance. “No more secrets. I swear it.”

He wanted to be cautious of the docks, the watching eyes, the careful silences that had guarded him all his life. But what storm could hold back the lightning in his chest now? The way Alesander had said his name—Lord Davos Allyrion—as if it meant more than land or title. As if it meant him.

They walked back to Godsgrace hand in hand, palms pressed together like twin heartbeats. Every inch of Davos’ skin was alive, his nerves strung taut, Alesander plucking each one in perfect harmony. His mind whirled with a single refrain: more, more, more, more.

“My brother is alive,” Davos confessed, startled by the silence, needing to fill it. “They say I killed him. I didn’t. He lives in Volantis with his wife. I don’t have spies on him, it didn’t feel right.”

Another turn, his wounded hand tightening painfully in Alesander’s grasp. He hissed, but kept going.

“I do have spies. That much is true. Mostly former brothel workers, I trained them myself. I smoke, but I hate to drink. I can only ride my mare, Velma, on any other horse I’d fall flat. My hands are scarred from chemical waste. I sleep with one candle burning and a dagger under my pillow. I lied: I remember every person I’ve killed. I hate trousers, they make my skin itch. I’m afraid of going blind because of my eyes. If I could, I’d walk barefoot always. When I’m nervous, I scrub the floors—or myself—until one of us bleeds. I always wanted a cat, but I fear it would love my sisters more. I’ve dreamt of you since the day you came to Godsgrace. I love spicy food, though it makes me weep. I have a scar on my hip where Mors stabbed me. I’m still talking because I’m nervous, and I apologize, but if I don’t kiss you again very soon, I’ll perish.”

By the gate, Alesander glanced at him, brows drawn in that familiar way, ready to ask a question he already knew the answer to.

“Follow me,” Davos murmured, kissing the back of his hand. His lips lingered, both a reverent promise, a distraction.

In his chambers, Davos did not let go. It wasn’t Ales’ first time here, but it felt new, charged. The silence between them no longer fragile but expectant. Theirs.

He turned, torchlight painting Alesander in shifting gold. Davos’ breath stilled.

“I need to tell you something more,” he said, voice low. “That night… the first time you kissed me. You were drunk. You looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense… and you kissed me.”

He laughed, short and awkward. Oh gods, I’m blushing.

“I didn’t kiss you back. Not because I didn’t want to. I wanted to… so much it hurt. But I was afraid I’d do it wrong.” His hands fidgeted, then stilled. “I don’t have… the kind of experience others do. I’m not naïve. I know what happens. I’ve read books, heard the boasts. But I never wanted that, not like that. I wanted it to mean something.”

As you do.

His thumb traced Alesander’s cheekbone, reverent. Their noses brushed once more, breath mingling shallow, searching.

“Teach me,” he whispered. “Teach me to kiss you, to touch you, to make you like it.”

And Alesander did.

The kiss was not awkward, not fumbling. It was full, alive. Heat and tenderness, sacred in the way Alesander guided him, coaxed him, showed him.

The night unfurled like a secret.

Davos had known heat only in theory, in overheard boasts and clinical descriptions and the stories men traded like coin. But none of those things had ever spoken of this, of aching tenderness, of laughter between kisses, of fingers twining like roots in the soil of a shared bed. Of being held like something unbearable to lose.

He hadn’t known it could feel like heaven.

He hadn’t known it could feel like love.

Now the world was quiet again. The moon traced silver lines along their tangled limbs, and the air smelled like warm skin and open windows.

Davos was still kissing him slowly, lazily, trying to memorize the shape of each other’s mouths, like stopping might mean forgetting.

As if the night could stretch on forever. And maybe it could.

Their limbs were still tangled, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed, and Alesander’s neck and shoulders were bitten red where Davos had marked him in the dark, clumsy heat of wanting.

The urge to keep touching Ales, to keep proving this was real, made Davos’ hands restless.

“Ales…” His voice was soft. Drowsy. Scared. “Will you stay the night?”

A beat passed, and Davos’ throat worked as he corrected himself, voice shaking just slightly.

“No. I mean—could you stay forever?”

Morning came in the shape of Ales’ curls, mussed and haloed.

Davos was a fool. He had a dozen better things to do than sit in his room watching Ales move about like he owned the place. Wearing his clothes, no less, neck marked with Davos’ teeth. And there Davos lay, sheet tangled at his hips, body mapped in scratches and bites like he’d fought his way through a feral brawl. Maybe he had.

Ales reached for a book, fingers trailing its spine as though he belonged here. Like the morning, the intimacy, the comfort were not fragile things at all.

“This book is about High Valyrian,” Davos rasped, his voice rough. “I was never fond of the Targaryens, but the Daynes speak it. So do many of the Free Folk. If they cross into Godsgrace, I need to understand them.”

Ales smiled.

Perfect, radiant, too good for me.

Davos rose, tying his tunic, though his hands wandered back to Ales’ waist, tracing the freckles on his shoulders into constellations.

“This one’s Ursa Major,” he murmured against Ales’ skin, lips trailing up to the blush at his ear. “This one is mine.”

He nipped at Ales’ earlobe, unable to stop himself from marking the pale skin with proof of possession.

No more secrets.

There was still one left.

“Would you…” Davos hesitated, hiding his face against Ales’ back as an excuse to kiss over his spine. “Would you see the West Wing with me? It’s clean now. I could light the lanterns, explain… it won’t look like…”

Death.

Alesander walked by Davos side, quietly, smiling contently down at his feet as they brought him closer to Godsgrace. To home.

There was so much he wanted to say, to do, but he didn’t. Not yet. He knew that he and Davos had all of the time in the world now to do as they pleased. There was so much love inside of him, and he wondered if Davos could feel it.

When Davos was the one to break the silence finally, Ales could only stare at him in awe. He was confessing, telling Ales truths that he hadn’t told him before, speaking on about anything and everything, and Ales listened. There was nothing sweeter in the world than the sound of Davos’ voice. There was nothing better than the feeling of honesty. It was Ales’ turn to share that honesty.

Alesander softly laughed at the last words Davos had said. “Thank you for telling me all of that. I suppose it’s my turn now.”

“So…” where to start? Well, where had Davos started?

With a deep breath in, he began.

“My notebooks are filled with stories, written by me, but I show no one. I have a stash of books underneath my bed in Kings Landing, I stole all of them from the library. I have a horse named Oak, he is my pride and joy. My nameday passed on the second moon I was here, in Godsgrace, I turned ten and nine. My favorite meal is mushroom soup, and I love tea with extra lemon and honey every morning. I excel in sword fighting, but I have no passion for it. I used to be called the “rosebud” of the Parchements, because in my youth I followed my mother everywhere, who is called the “rose.” Also in part because I like to wear flower patterned outfits. I often forget to eat when things go wrong in my life. I’ve been with many men, and I’ve hated all of them. You’re the only man I have ever loved…”

He stopped, deeming that the perfect place to. They could share more things later, after all, they had a lifetime to do so.

“Teach me how to kiss you. How to touch you. How to make you like it.”

Alesander’s breath hitched at those words. Davos was so close to him now, almost kissing him, and Alesander was ready to lunge forward and give him every once of love that he possibly could.

How to make me like it?

He had never heard words like those before. Every time he had been with a man before, it had been a meaningless mess of desperation on Alesanders part. A desperate attempt to wash away his loneliness and hope someone might save him from reality.

Not one had ever asked him what he wanted or what he liked, and not one had cared about what he did not like. Not like Davos had just did before him. Ales had always done things for others, made sure his lovers were comfortable and pleased while he comforted himself with the fact that he should be grateful he’s not alone.

But this was different. Davos loved him, Davos cared about him, and Davos was right in front of him now.

Not wanting to wait another moment, he simply said, “I will.” And he kissed Davos.

Alesander would have been content to spend the rest of the night with Davos on him, kissing him as slowly as he was now.

His neck and shoulders ached where Davos’ teeth had sunk into his skin. An ache that told him all of this was real, an ache that he wanted to remember.

His hands lovingly held Davos’ back, stroking the strong muscles and skin there where his nails had previously scratched.

When Davos pulled away, beginning to kiss Ales everywhere else, he only laid back and allowed it. He watched Davos move across his body, kiss his head and his shoulders and touch him like no one else had before, and Alesander simply allowed it.

He’d never felt love like this, never had someone put their lips all over him like he was something to worship. Now that he had it with Davos, Ales did not think he could ever live without it.

Then Davos spoke Ales’ name, looking at him with his kind, piercing eyes.

“Will you stay the night?” Davos said, and Ales began to smile at that.

Then, “no. I mean—could you stay forever?”

Alesander could sense the worry in his voice, the worry that Ales would leave and this would suddenly be over. But that wasn’t reality.

“Oh, Davos.”

He moved his hands and gently held Davos’ face, his sweet face.

“I was never planning on leaving.”

He rubbed his thumbs down his cheeks lovingly, staring up at the Lord of Godsgrace.

Ales wanted to memorize every small detail he could, his eyes moving from Davos’ own eyes to the beautiful features of his face.

Ales scanned the freckles and beauty marks that were scattered all over his lovers face, all perfectly placed and like stars on the most beautiful night.

His lips, more red and now glossy from their kissing, and pouty as they always were, so perfect Ales wanted to touch them.

His eyelashes, gently swooping over his beautiful eyes, fluttering against Ales’ face when they were so close but not kissing.

His sweet nose, which had also graced Ales’ face as they kissed. It was darling to him.

Ales moved one hand off of Davos’ face, and immediately brought it back, but not to hold it… he had a different plan.

His pointer finger poked Davos nose, quickly and playfully, and Alesander softly laughed. He watched in delight as Davos crinkled his nose, clearly confused.

“You are cute. Handsome, of course, and cute.”

He laughed again, and then put that hand again on Davos’ back. He thought about his lovers question again, thinking about how they would soon need to sleep. He sighed, wanting to drag the night on for as long as he could, and wanting to keep is eyes wide open and stare at his lover forever.

“Have you ever slept beside someone? I have not. I’ve been with many people, but I always left before I fell asleep…” He did not know why he admitted it now, but he suddenly felt he wanted to. He felt he wanted to reveal every secret he’d ever kept to Davos right now, in the comfort of this night. Even when the words felt like they shouldn’t leave his lips, he still wanted to.

“I wasn’t comfortable with them. I was… miserable.” He paused, his voice thickening with emotion that came surfacing upon remembering what he used to live like.

“But with you… I’m not. With you, I’m… happy.”

He then surged up, quickly pulling Davos into a tight hug, smiling at hearing Davos’ gasp at the unexpected embrace.

“I love you. Please, love me while I sleep. Lay close to me. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

Alesander could feel Davos’ eyes on him as he moved about the room, searching every little inch of it.

Well, he thought. It’s now my room too. Why not have a look around?

Before his search began, he made sure to partially dress himself. With Davos’ clothes, of course.

It was neater than his own room, filled with little things that caught Ales’ eye.

Naturally, his attention gravitated towards a book on the shelf, one he hadn’t seen before. Once it was in his hands, he began to flip through it. High Valyrian, he saw, a language familiar to him after a lifetime of living with the Targaryens. He knew the Braavosi dialect as well, being half-Braavosi himself.

Flipping through the pages, he stopped when Davos started talking to him. He looked over to the other man, smiling at him then.

Davos was still on the bed- their bed. Their bed, their room, their books, their clothes.

“I’m half-Braavosi, you know. I speak it as well.” He teased, watching Davos start to wander over towards him.

Then Davos’ hands were on his waist, his lips on his shoulders exploring there. Ales leaned into the touch, setting the book down and putting his hands over Davos’.

How nice it felt, to be touched by someone he loved. Someone he was comfortable with, someone he cared for more than anyone in the world.

He blushed when he felt teeth on his earlobe. “Dav…” The nickname came out fast, he hadn’t even had to think about it.

Then, Davos stopped, bringing his lips to Ales’ spine.

“It’s part of your home too. If you want it to be.”

Ales spun around then, moving to hold Davos face in his hands. He made sure Davos was looking at him as he spoke next. “Yes,” he said softly. “I want to see it. It is part of my home now, and I won’t run away this time. Never again.”

He felt slightly guilty for all that had happened yesterday, but, he kept a firm hold on Davos’ face.

He remembered that yesterday had turned into this, to them here and now. He had to keep looking forward. He had to believe that everything would continue to be okay, as long as they had each other.

One of his hands trailed down to hold one of Davos’. “Let’s properly dress first, then go, okay?” He began to drag Davos towards the dresser.

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.

Horrors is what he found in the West Wing.

His walk slowed as he took in everything, heart racing with every new thing his eyes landed on.

Blood. So much blood. Metal glinted from the fire he’d lit on the wall from his torch. It was dark in here, eerily dark. He observed metal stained with red. Sharp things caught his gaze, sharp things with more blood.

There was writing he couldn’t comprehend, his vision blurred with fear or disbelief or both.

Ales now stood in front of a pit of… something. He couldn’t even remember when his feet took him to it, just that he saw it now, and he was afraid.

So this is why I was told never to come here. He thought, barely processing it. Davos was hiding this. Hiding something terrible.

A million questions flooded his mind, none of them making sense to him. Who knew about this? What was this? Why was this here? What does Davos do here?

Davos. His Davos. The man who’d let him stay here and do what he loved. The man who’d looked at Ales without the judgment he’d come to know. The man who Ales held so gently in his arms, soothing the sickness that had hurt him.

The man who had Ales’ heart in his hands.

This was his secret.

The butcher, Ales’ mind whispered, suddenly and without warning. He had known all the rumors about Davos, and he’d ignored every single one. He’d been taught from a young age to ignore rumors, mostly from the Prince Joffrey, but it was a lesson that stuck with him.

He wasn’t above gossip, but he was above believing it. But now…

He didn’t want to believe it. To believe the worst of Davos. But his heart felt as if it was in his throat, and everything here had sent his hands into a violent shake.

What had he discovered?

Then, a voice spoke Ales’ name. Without wanting to, he stepped back, afraid. It was Davos himself.

He caught me. Or, maybe, I caught him.

Then, he spoke again. Davos said “no,” over and over again. He said it as Ales stared, unwavering eyes.

Was that confirmation? Confirmation that none of this was right, that it was a secret Ales was never supposed to learn?

Ales couldn’t even hear the rest of his words, the blood was rushing too loudly in his ears, and his eyes were too fixated on Davos himself. He tried to examine Davos, to look for any sign that none of this was real. But it was real.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

No explanation. No comfort. Nothing, except for that Ales knew that what he’d seen here was not for his eyes, and Davos wasn’t happy. Ales was frozen, waiting to wake up from this terrible dream, or for Davos to tell him something to make this all go away. But he didn’t.

Say something. Say something. Say something!

His mind scolded him, but his body did not comply. His body trembled and ached and pained, but did not speak.

The last thing he processed was Davos, yelling at him. Yelling at him to leave.

Alesander flinched hard, coming back to reality. Davos had never raised his voice at him, never once. He’d always spoken to him with a kind of gentleness that made him want to cry. Now, he did want to cry, but not out of tenderness.

His feet seemed to carry him to the door without his mind knowing.

He hid this from me. He hates me. He’s doing something terrible here. None of this is right. I need to leave, as he ordered me to.

No one had payed Alesander any mind as he left.

It was a common occurrence for him to leave the castle for town, and it wasn’t like anyone knew of what had just happened. It wasn’t as if they could see that his heart was torn from his chest, stomped on, and ruined now.

He hadn’t had the time for tears yet.

In a haste, he’d rushed to his room, grabbed his bag that he always brought to town, and left. He hadn’t taken anything else, as he didn’t think to.

A part of him wanted to leave his belongings. For Davos to see them, and to remember him. Another part of him was so confused and afraid, that packing his clothes wasn’t a priority.

Ales left and made his way to the docks. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Larra, Nymeria, Kiera, Ryon, and all the people he’d cared for.

He felt the tiniest bit of relief when he saw the captain. Arron, he recognized. A man he’d known well, one he talked to often on his visits to town. Ales had helped his son, Maron, with his reading.

Arron was the captain of the ship, which was leaving for Westeros on the morrow.

Ales approached him, meekly, trying to hide the sorrow on his face.

Arron spoke first. “Going home so soon, Penrose? My boy will miss you.” His tone didn’t make it seem friendly, but that was just how the man spoke. Ales had come to know many of the people here, in Godsgrace. Observing them, connecting with them. He had thought once that he might stay here forever. No longer was that true, he knew.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He searched in his small bag for the coin he always kept there.

The captain rolled his eyes. He looked so much like his son when he did that, Alesander thought. He would miss them. “Nonsense. But I’ll take you home.”

Alesander’s heart dropped when he realized there was no coin. He’d spent it all, all the coin he’d brought to Dorne. The rest of it was left in his room, and there was no going back now.

He could have cried right there and then. “Fuck. I- I’m sorry- I don’t-“

Arron realized instantly what was happening. He interrupted Ales, “don’t worry about it, Ser. You’ve done enough for my family. Consider us even now.”

The monotone voice was comforting, but not enough to soothe the shaking that hadn’t left Alesander since this morning. The unstoppable hurt from what had happened.

Absentmindedly, he thanked Arron, and boarded the ferry.

Other people walked about the deck, paying no mind to Alesander Penrose and his grief.

He found a secluded edge, where less people wandered, and sunk to the floorboards. He hugged his journal for dear life, finding little comfort in that.

Davos had gotten him that journal.

Feeling the wood and inhaling the salty air, it all became real suddenly. Having this time now, to think, he did. Everything came back to him.

The discovery of the West Wing. Their fight. All that he’d seen. Frantically, he revisited everything he remembered he saw.

Diagrams, so many diagrams. Ones stained with blood, ones with little notes in the margins, ones that Ales couldn’t make out. What did it all mean?

There was the vat, as well. The horrifying, vat of liquid that steamed with the scent of something Alesander couldn’t name. Something evil? Or something that he’d misjudged?

Weapons, everywhere. Ones with the rusted color that Ales assumed was, once again, blood. Saws, small knives, and…

No, he thought, suddenly. No, not weapons. Tools. Surgical tools.

He knew Davos was a healer. He’d known it all along, heard the stories of how Davos was a talented healer. Gods, he’d even came to Kings Landing to deliver The Queen’s babies.

No, perhaps it hadn’t been what Alesander thought it was. The blood, the tools, the notes. It was research. It was healing. It was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible, misjudgment.

The realization hit him hard as if he had been struck in the face.

He made Davos feel ashamed. He’d made Davos think that he was afraid of him. He’d hurt Davos, just as everyone who spoke terrible things about him tried to hurt him.

That was why he yelled at him. Why he didn’t explain.

His own words came back to him. “I’ll care for you. Always.”

Ales had broken that promise to Davos. He’d been so afraid, he’d went against his words. It was all ruined now, all Alesander’s fault for being a terrified fool.

Alesander swallowed hard, trying to keep the rush of tears down, but to no avail. Defeated, and exhausted, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his head in his arms.

The echo of his voice still clung to the air when the door slammed shut. The silence afterward was unbearable. The West Wing was a tomb, stone swallowing sound whole, as if it had long waited to drink down the last of him. Torches guttered low, shadows stretched long across the flags, and Davos stood amidst them, chest heaving, throat raw from the shout.

Five moons. Five moons of a fairytale he had no right to live. Five moons of pretending he could be something other than butcher, heretic, shadow of a man. Five moons of tricking himself into believing he might be worthy of Alesander’s laughter in the morning, his steady hand at night.

Now the illusion was over, shattered in a single look.

And gods, he could still see it: the terror in Alesander’s eyes.

Not anger. Not confusion. Fear.

Fear, as if he were nothing but the monster whispered about in drunken tales. Fear, the same look common folk bore when he came for their kin with priest’s smile and butcher’s blade. Fear that said plain: I see you now. I know what you are.

His mind coiled in on itself, tearing him open from within. Was this not always inevitable? That sooner or later, Alesander’s gaze would pierce the veil and glimpse the rot beneath? Love was only borrowed time, only grace he had never earned. What was he thinking, what madness had told him he could cradle light without blackening it?

He remembered, with sudden, jarring clarity, the quiet, almost imperceptible moment he had stolen from himself. Alesander bent over a notebook, sunlight catching the ink, each stroke deliberate, each word a secret whispered to a world Davos had not yet been allowed to enter. The way his curls fell across his forehead, the subtle purse of his lips in concentration… it lodged itself in Davos’ chest, stubborn as a splinter.

Davos had lingered under the pretense of attending to papers, fingers busy, eyes pretending not to see. But he could not look away. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache that had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with curiosity. Something sharper, more consuming, had taken root.

The thought had come, a quiet, dangerous tremor in the mind: I am in love with him.

He had tried to bury it, to turn his mind back to the rhythm that kept the thoughts at bay. But every movement of Alesander’s pen, every upward glance in thought, shifted the world beneath Davos’ feet, and he could not find solid ground again.

He moved without thought. The pestle still lay on the floor where he had dropped it. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling. Work was what he had left. Order. The bite of steel, the rhythm of scrubbing, the mindless ritual that kept the rot at bay. The bath still steamed faintly, the stink cloying in his nostrils. If he didn’t scour the saws, the blood would rust them. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would eat through the stone. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend Alesander hadn’t looked at him as if the man he knew was already a corpse.

But his hands betrayed him. They shook too much, fumbling rag and cloth. When he tried to scrape dried gore from a scalpel, it slipped, slicing the heel of his palm. A clean, deep cut. Blood welled dark and hot. Davos stared at it, then laughed.

The sound was hideous. Mad. A jagged bark torn from his chest. Of course. What else could he expect? Devils belong in hell. What was he doing, trying to cage an angel?

His thoughts circled like carrion crows, each darker than the last. Alesander had touched his hair like it was worth touching. Whispered to him like he deserved gentleness. And Davos had repaid him with bone saws and chains. What was love from a monster but another form of cruelty?

The laughter bent him double until it broke into sobs, raw and wrenching. He pressed his bleeding hand to his face, smearing red across his skin. Pathetic. A grown man, a lord, in his nightclothes, crying like a child among the ruins of his own making.

A voice in his head mocked him as he scrubbed the floors: ‘you clean the blood as if the filth is in the stones, not in your veins.’ He wrapped his wound in linen, clumsy and crooked. He looked at his hands and thought: they would never be clean. Not even if he boiled them down to the bone.

By the time the floors were scrubbed and the doors locked, his body ached. His face was swollen, eyes raw, hand clumsily bound in linen. He wandered until Larra found him. Her gaze darted from the bandage to his ravaged face. She raced forward, hands quick, reaching to tend.

“Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head. His voice cracked, too thin. “It’s ruined. I ruined everything.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I scared him.” The words fell heavy, bitter.

“Scared who?”

He wanted to lie, but the truth forced itself out, ragged and broken. “Ales.”

Her brows knitted, confusion soft as her voice. “Why?”

His throat burned. “Because I love him.”

The words left him flayed. Saying it aloud made it real, unbearable. He pressed a hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. He wished he could swallow the admission whole. He wished he could die and wake as something else.

A flower, perhaps. Something simple. Something Alesander could pluck, keep in a vase by the window. Something worthy of his touch.

Larra’s hand brushed his arm. “Then tell him,” she urged. “Tell him you love him.”

“It’s useless,” Davos whispered. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Did he say that?”

He clawed at his hair, pain sharp as he tugged. How could he tell Alesander he had earned the devotion of a killer? That he wanted to beg him not to go where he could not follow? Drag me through hell, but stay where I can see.

“Last night,” Larra murmured, “when the migraine had you near mad, he was there. He never left your side. He soothed you. If you can’t trust your own heart, then trust his.”

The words struck like a hammer. He froze. His mind spun. The cool cloth, the voice low and steady, the fingers combing his hair.

Not a dream. Not a poppy-sick illusion.

Before he could think, he was running. Faster, faster, tearing through the halls toward Alesander’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Inside too little was disturbed. Clothes folded. Coin pouch untouched. Panic slammed into him.

Gods. Alesander was out there. Alone. And it was his fault.

Davos didn’t care that he was half-dressed, bleeding through his bandage. He tore through Godsgrace, demanding answers, until they pointed him to the docks. To the ferry.

Arron, the ferry captain, shifted uneasily. “The lad seemed heartbroken, milord.”

Davos shoved a gold bracelet into his hand, voice cracking. “Give me your quarters. Just—just give me a chance.”

It took too long to find him. Faces blurred past. Bows, whispers, startled stares at their lord running half-mad across the deck. And then, Alesander.

Hunched on the far side, shoulders bowed, face streaked with tears. The sight broke him entirely.

“Ales—” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, seizing him by the elbow. “Don’t run. Please—don’t.” His words tumbled desperate, uneven. “Come with me, just come, I can’t—” He dragged him into the captain’s quarters, hands shaking.

The quarters were dark without the oil to burn, moonlight making its way through a small window. Arron was a good man, grateful enough not to ask questions, well paid enough to keep people from interrupting them.

The door shut. Davos reached for Alesander’s face, brushing away tears with his sleeve. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice fraying. “All this because of me. I never meant it—I never wanted you to see—” His breath hitched. “I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry.”

When words failed, he fell to his knees. Head bowed, chest heaving, clutching at Alesander’s legs

With the cold gnawing at his bare legs, Davos felt like a lamb offering its throat to the blade. Whether Alesander chose to be the shepherd or the executioner, Davos’ neck was already bared, exposed, and waiting.

“I love you…” The words slipped out, raw and unbidden, and Davos wished he could claw them back, bury them in the recesses of a dream. “I don’t know how to love, not properly, but I feel it here, in my bones. I’m rotten, Alesander. You’ve called me great, brilliant, even beautiful… but no one else sees me that way. To them, I’m a vulture. A scavenger.”

Davos’ head dropped to Alesander’s belt, and he wished the pressure of it would leave a mark, a scar to remember this moment by. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense Alesander’s hand rising, slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for a feral creature poised to bolt or bite. Davos was certain he would know Alesander’s presence even blind and deaf. He thought he would recognize the space between them, the quiet tension in the air, the way Alesander reached for him before their skin ever touched. And when they did—when Alesander’s fingers finally curled around his shoulders, gently prying them apart—Davos knew he would carry the memory of that touch into his dreams.

He already did.

Now, as Davos looked up, regret pooled heavy in his gut. Alesander was beautiful like this, his face illuminated in the dim light, blonde hair catching the glow, freckles scattered like constellations, his eyes glimmering with something unspoken. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he were choking on the weight of his response, the inevitability of rejection.

Davos wondered, briefly, if Alesander feared him. He would sooner sever his own hand than harm Alesander, but Alesander was too clever to mistake a lynx for a housecat. The thought made Davos’ grip on Alesander’s hips slacken. He would let go. He would let Alesander leave, if that was what he wanted.

“I’ve killed more people than I can name,” Davos confessed, his voice low and trembling. “I don’t feel enough guilt to purify me. I’d kill again. I’m selfish, Alesander. Greedy. I want you all to myself. I’m jealous—jealous of everything and everyone that’s ever kept you from me. Jealous of the men who’ve had you, jealous of the men you’ve had. Jealous that they’re not me. Jealous that they’ve traced your freckles in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I’m… pathetic. Rambling. Love has made me a coward.”

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart poured faster, uncontainable. He’ll leave. He’ll despise you. He’ll see the madness, the ruin, and he’ll turn away. Yet the words came anyway, bloody and bare, dragging his soul into the open.

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his throat, and he dropped his hands to clutch at his knees. His skin felt cold, but his body burned, feverish and raw. What a selfish, wretched little thing his heart was, demanding Alesander join him in this hell.

“I love you,” he repeated, the words spilling out like a plea. “I’ll love you if you stay in Godsgrace for the rest of your days. I’ll love you if you walk away right now. I’ll love you if you marry someone else, if you build a life far from me. I’ll love you if you decide that sharing my loneliness is enough.”

On his knees, dressed in threadbare pajamas and stripped of dignity, Davos prayed harder than he ever had to the Seven.

For once, it wasn’t atonement he sought.

How many hours had passed, and he had just sat here? He couldn’t be sure. Maybe it wasn’t even hours, only mere minutes, and he was going mad.

People had tried to talk to him, but he’d barely noticed. After many failed attempts of conversation and asking if he was alright, every passenger decided he wasn’t worth the extra breath.

Good, he didn’t want to speak now. He wanted to waste away here, sink into the floorboards, never be seen again.

The memory of everything that happened before replayed in his mind, over and over again.

Davos, his heart and mind both ached for him, Davos. I’m sorry.

In the midst of all of his heartbreak, suddenly, he heard his name being called. Not just someone asking if he was alright, no, it was a familiar voice. It was-

He looked up, and somehow, he was there- Davos.

Was Ales seeing things? Had the sorrow and longing made him believe Davos was somehow here with him?

Clearly not, Ales decided, by the looks of the other passengers faces, and by the way Davos had grabbed his arm. Real, this was real. He came for me?

He barely had time to process anything before Davos was pulling him into the captains quarters. Davos was still in the same clothes he had been in when everything had happened. He looked frazzled, as if he had been crying, as if seeing Alesander was the only thing in the world that mattered. He had blood on him, where had that come from? Alesander’s heart hurt with more misery and guilt and things he never knew he could feel.

He came for me. In his nightclothes, in his sorrow, in his bloody bandages, he came for me.

Who had ever come for Alesander before like this?

They entered the small room, now secluded from everyone else, and Alesander felt the anxiousness rise in him again. He couldn’t tell what was happening, what was going to happen, and only wanted to apologize to Davos now, to hold him and ask him what had happened. Ales’ lips frowned in sorrow, his eyes still leaked tears he could not stop.

But, Davos wiped the tears that remained on his face, and Alesander let him. The touch was everything. He wanted to say something to Davos, anything, but Davos continued to speak. He spoke frantically, apologizing, and then…

He was on the ground, holding Ales’ waist.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

“I love you…”

He loves me.

Alesander swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was horribly painful, and more tears lingered in his eyes.

No more tears, he demanded to himself. He needed to be strong for Davos, who he was currently staring at, as he could not pull his gaze away from him. He loves me.

At some point, Ales had grabbed Davos’ shoulders, trying to steady him, needing to feel him.

Davos, who was on his knees, looked like he was saying some sorrowful prayer. He looked as if he had sinned and was confessing to Alesander who was his saint… But he was not. He confessed, but confessed his love. Love for Ales. Ales felt the grip of Davos’ hands at his hips slacken, then leave entirely. It was all so much to take in.

Ales listened. Listened, and felt his heart beat with every new thing Davos said. He memorized every word in his soul, felt every confession in his bones, and continued to listen.

He loves me as I love him.

Then, silence. Davos, on the ground, and Alesander watching him.

Alesander shook his head, realizing he had not yet said a word to what he’d just heard. Davos confessed, and confessed, and confessed, and all Alesander did was watch him with tearful eyes. It was time to confess back, to be honest for once in his life.

Slowly, he kneeled to face Davos.

Their knees touched, eyes locked on each other, and time felt as if it had stopped just for them.

Ales’ eyes shifted, lingering for a moment on Davos’ hand, bandaged and bloodied. It reminded Alesander of weeks ago, when the man in front of him had one of his hands in bloody bandages, the same as now.

Alesander had held his hand then, worried for him, then dropped the hand. He would never do that again.

He took Davos’ hand, carefully as to not touch the wound, and brought it to the left side of his chest, his heart. He placed the long fingers there there, delicately, and gently placed his own hand over Davos’. Would it leave blood on his shirt? He did not know. He did not care. If it did, he’d wear the stain proudly.

“My heart is yours, Davos.” His words came out raspy from the crying and the exhaustion, but the tenderness could not be misheard.

Then, with his free hand, he reached out, taking the other hand of his beloved that did not grace his heart. Then, quietly, but clearly, he spoke, “I love you.”

As gently as he could, and began to rub his thumbs against the rough skin of his beloved. Trying to calm the nerves he could see pouring from Davos. As if he wasn’t trembling himself.

He laughed, softly and quietly, but he laughed. “I’ve been miserable, truly. I’m always miserable, but i’ve been even worse loving you and not telling you. I’m glad you had the courage I did not.”

Davos looked so fragile, so soft in the moonlight. The darkness of the night reminded Ales suddenly of the dark room he’d found, of why the two were here now. Of the secrets between them.

“I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did. I was shocked to find what I did, surely. But, no, none of it changed the way I feel for you. You’re not rotten. You’re none of the horrible things you call yourself. I see who you really are.”

Alesander shifted slightly, feeling the wooden floorboards beneath his legs. He barely cared where they were, that they were on the floor of a ferry destined to leave in some hours, just knew that Davos was in front of him now, and that was all that mattered.

“You…” He paused, smiling, continuing to rub at the knuckles of the man he loved in front of him. A gentle smile and gentle touches. “I’ve never had someone treat me in the way you do. As if I’m interesting and someone worth caring for, as if I am good for anything. And I have seen the way you treat others, you pretend you’re not kind, but I see through you. I see the person I want the most in the world.”

A short pause, then, one to give Davos a look. A kind, soft look. One that he hoped said “I love you, I care for you, I see you,” just as much as his words did.

“But, I need you to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you. No more secrets between us, no more hiding ourselves away.” For most of Ales’ life, he’d tried desperately to hide the parts of him he hated. Hide the things he did, the places he went, the vulnerable parts of him. But no longer would he with Davos. They were in this together now, the two of them.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he lunged forward and hugged Davos. He sucked in a breath, shaky and emotional. “I love you, Lord Davos Allyrion. I love you, and I don’t want to leave Godsgrace, I want to stay with you. I want to go wherever you go, because I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”

He pulled back, slowly and gently, and looked into Davos’ eyes. His arms wrapped around Davos’ shoulders, not wanting to stop touching him.

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

Davos was here, in front of him, talking to him. Ales was listening, of course… listening, and saying nothing. Just watching the other man, as one did. Was it so wrong to observe every little mannerism Davos did? Was it wrong for his heart to skip a beat whenever Davos came into view?

In the past few weeks, he’d thought often of the words his brother Harrold had written to him.

“But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.”

No, Alesander was not falling in love… he was just a silly boy who attached himself to anyone nearby. Yes, that was it, just becoming fond of Lord Davos. Nothing more. Harrold had nothing to worry about.

Ales would just have to forget the moment when Davos’ face was too close to his, putting khol in on his eyes, gently brushing his skin. He’ll have to forget the amount of times he’d looked over his shoulder to find Davos there, saying nothing, just observing him. As if he was something to look at with interest. As if he was worthy of Davos’ attention.

“Just Davos”, Lord Davos had said. Just Davos, Ales thought to himself, smiling.

Looking at Davos, who stood in silence, Ales realized he had been silent the whole time. He’d responded to absolutely nothing Davos had said, just stared and waited. Davos had complimented Alesander, given him a gift, and offered him to read to the children here in the library. What in the world was he doing?

He breathed hard through his nose, locking eyes with Davos. He smiled. “Okay, just Davos. You may call me Ales, then, and we’re even. It’s what my friends call me.” He tried his hardest to sound sweet, to sound lighthearted, and to sound as if he wasn’t trembling with too many emotions.

But his words came out nervous and serious. He was serious about Davos calling him Ales, truly, but some part of him felt nerves whenever Davos stared at him the way he did. And not nerves that meant Ales was scared, no, the nerves he knew all too well that meant he was… wanting this attention. This staring and following and longing glances. How insane this was. No matter how many times he’d reminded himself that he was only working here, that Davos was a Lord who was destined to marry and never look at him twice, nothing stopped this feeling.

After his attempt at speaking, he looked down to the notebook left on the table. His new notebook, in fact. His heart burst with excitement, the same way it did moment’s ago when Davos first presented the gift.

Alesander wanted so badly to hug Lord Davos. The notebook that was gifted to him was perfect, it was exactly what Alesander wanted, and somehow Davos was aware of that. He wanted to show his gratitude through a bone crushing embrace, but he knew better than to do that. This was the Lord of Godsgrace, the man letting him stay here. Alesander needed to calm down his need to give and receive affection.

So, he settled for hugging the notebook itself. He was so happy that he did not care if he looked silly. “Well, uhm, thank you for this. Thank you so much!” He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth leather of the cover.

But he opened his eyes as they widened with shock suddenly, remembering what Davos had said about why he was receiving this gift. Gratitude, sure, but also because he noticed that Alesander was almost out of pages. He…noticed.

Lyonel’s words came back to him. To Lyonel, Alesander was boring and all he did was write in his stupid notebook. But Davos had just gifted him a notebook, and observed him with eyes that told him he must be doing something interesting… but he still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Davos was just worried Ales would leave, or that he’d mess up the library, or something else that could explain this all.

“You don’t need to watch me so intensely, or have your servants watch me… I won’t mess anything up, I promise you. Plus, I just write, it is awfully boring, I know. But, I deeply appreciate this gift. Thank you, Davos.” He hugged the notebook tightly one last time before setting it down.

“And of course I’ll read to the children! I used to do that back in Kings Landing, though it wasn’t a tradition of ours, more just a little hobby of mine. Helping the tutors there teach the children to read and write. It was one of the only things I enjoyed there…” Realizing he was rambling, he stopped. He tried hard to go back into his usual unserious self.

“But, you are the boss here, if you want me to read to the children then that is what I shall do, I’m at your command, Davos.” Alesander purposely emphasized the name. He knew he was overusing Davos’ name now, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the way it sounded, and he liked the way Davos looked at him when the name left his mouth. He wanted to see how it would sound for Davos to say Ales. He wanted again to hug him, to hold him and see him relax. Davos was always so tense, looking always as if he expected danger to appear. Alesander wanted to kiss whatever worries he had away, to brush the soft hair out of his face and call him handsome and-

Gods, he was ridiculous. He shook his head, erasing his mind of these absurd thoughts. There was something so different about Davos, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him, and he felt guilty for feeling this way about him. Guilty because Alesander truly wasn’t remarkable, or anything else kind Davos had to say about him. He was nothing, and Davos was an important man. A kind-hearted, handsome, important man. Ales was just Ales, not worthy of him. Only worthy of men who payed no attention to him other than when he lay in their beds. Only worthy of the worst.

He looked down, feeling the guilt and sadness. He sighed quietly. “Thank you, again. This notebook will be used quickly I’m sure, as I never am able to stop writing for even a moment, silly of me. I’ll just be back to my work then.” He laughed, a sad laugh, then picked up the quill Davos had set down for him, but not beginning to write. Davos was still there, and his gaze was not off of him.

And he did not want it off of him.

The library was quiet, as it usually was, save for a small voice that occasionally stumbled through words and stopped at certain phrases.

“… the end!”

All of the rest of the kids cheered for their friend, a six year old boy sat on Alesander’s lap, reading from a book they all chose to read this day.

“Excellent reading, Maron.” He gave the small boy a little squeeze. “Soon enough you’ll be reading on your own, without my help!”

Maron closed the book, looking at a different book placed at Alesander’s side. “What’s that!” The rest of the children’s eyes followed his.

“Oh, just something I was going to read to you all once we finished. Something I wrote!” It was a story he’d wrote years ago, one he’d always read to children in the Red Keep. He was happy to have a little audience once again, here in Dorne. It made everything feel more like home to him.

Maron squinted his eyes, looking at the cover. “Who is al-es-and-her?”

“That would be me.”

“No! But you’re Ales!”

Giggled filled the open library now, and another kid spoke up “Awes who keeps the books and wears weird clothes!”

Ales faked offense now, gasping. “I’m insulted! I wear the most fancy clothes I can muster, my friend!”

Another kid spoke, more yelled at him, “I want a turn to read now!”

“Okay sweet Maron, let’s let another friend have a turn.” He gently placed Maron at his side off of his lap, with all the care and fondness for this boy.

As the next child, a seven year old named Ashara, ran to Alesander and settled herself on him, Ales noticed Davos’ presence now. The other children gathered themselves closer to Ales, as Ales’ eyes met Davos’. He smiled at the other man.

“Everyone, be silent for a moment. Let’s wave to our good Lord Allyrion, and thank him for letting us use his library to read.”

The kids were not, silent, but their waves and yells of gratitude were sweet enough for Ales to forget them being too loud. He was happy, the happiest he’d been since he arrived. Realizing Davos was there with him now had only made him happier.

Would it be so wrong if he wished for this feeling to never go away? If he sometimes dreamed of staying here for longer than was necessary? He didn’t want to leave behind this castle, these children, his new friends, and Davos. He was happy. That in itself felt scary.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep being happy.

Alesander could not find Davos.

He’d been a madman running around Godsgrace, looking for the Lord, his friend.

He’d knocked on the room to his doors, but no answer came. He searched through the kitchens, wondering if he’d been preparing a meal for himself, but he was not there.

Where could he possibly be?

After searching every room he could possibly think Davos would be, he felt defeated. Alesander decided he’d go to the library, his usual sanctuary, where he would wait until Davos found him.

He needed desperately to see Davos, because he had something for him. A small gift, to repay him for the notebook he’d so thoughtfully gave to him the other day. Alesander had spent yesterday night out searching for the perfect gift, and this nighttime adventure had been chaotic, but he eventually stumbled upon something he knew he needed to purchase for Davos.

It was a silver spoon, engraved with patterns that resembled flowers, and a beautifully crafted end to it. Alesander had spent almost all of his coin he’d brought to Godsgrace on this utensil, but he did not regret it at all. He still had some money left, of course, and this was something he needed to buy, of course…

Gifting someone a spoon sounded silly he knew, and he could almost imagine his brother Harrold’s response to this. He’d laugh, surely, and playfully punch Alesander on the arm. “A kitchen utensil? How romantic!” He could almost hear Harry saying those words as he’d given the money to the man selling these beautifully crafted spoons.

But, nonetheless, he thought it a perfectly suitable gift. He noticed how Davos cooked all of his meals, something unusual for a Lord, and he thought it the most charming thing. Perhaps he can use this spoon to cook or eat with, and he’ll think of me when he does. He thought of those rough, the sun tanned hands that would eventually touch the spoon, holding it carefully as if it would break. And Alesander wanted to touch those hands, but he shook that thought away.

So, once he arrived in the library, he kept the spoon in a small box on the table where he sat. He was about to bring out his notebook and begin writing until he noticed he was being watched. Watched by Davos, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. He gasped, startled by his entrance.

“Oh! I’ve been looking for you. I never thought you’d be here in the library, Davos.”

Why was he in the library? Then, the most hopeful thoughts presented themselves to Alesander.

He was waiting for me. He was looking for me. He wanted to see me here.

But no, none of that could be true. For what possible reason could he want to see Alesander? Perhaps he was just… reading. Yes, reading, that must be the truth, Ales decided.

His eyes trailed Davos body, looking him up at down. Not in a way of judgment towards the other man, of course, but in the way where he couldn’t help but want to examine every inch of this man. “Anyway, I have something-“ As his eyes scanned over Davos, they eventually settled on his hand. His hand that was wrapped in a bandaged.

“What happened? The last time I saw you, you had no such injury!” Quickly he stood up, walking closer to Davos, who only stood there, tense as always and blue eyes unyielding from Ales.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently grabbed Davos injured hand. He examined it over, turning it and looking at the bandages. Once again, he asked, “What happened?” His genuine concern could not be hidden even if he tried. Where had this wound come from? Did someone hurt him?

He looked away from Davos’ hand to meet his eyes. What was making him so nervous? He refrained from squeezing the hand he was holding for comfort, as this hand was injured. So he settled for looking at Davos with a look of compassion.

But then, Ales realized what he was doing. He was holding Davos hand.

Quickly, but gently, he let go. Then he noticed how Davos’ eyes shifted to look anywhere but Alesander, and he looked as if he was holding in a breath.

“Well if you won’t tell me I’ll just ask your sisters! Surely they know if you truly can’t be sure how your own hand has mysteriously become injured.” He tried to ease some of the tension, joking lightheartedly and smiling brightly at his friend. Friend was surely the word for it…

“Well, I have something that will make you feel better!” Turning around, he grabbed the small box and presented it to Davos. He carefully lifted off the top, showing off the spoon and moving it closer so Davos could examine it.

“It’s for you. A gift, for you, yes. From me. Because you gave me a gift, and I…” Stopping himself from any more embarrassing rambling, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath. Davos made him so nervous, he couldn’t believe it sometimes. No other man had sent Ales into not being able to properly speak, it was horrifying.

“Just something I found for you. Well I didn’t find it, I bought it, but, it is for you. Eat with it, cook with it, I don’t know, admire it?” He laughed nervously, knowing he was once again saying all too much. Then, much to his own horror, he realized he was blushing. His face hotter than the Dornish sun, and his cheeks redder than Dornish red wine.

Alesander Penrose never blushed. Sure, he sometimes pretended to be shy and nervous around men who wanted him. It’s what they liked. He pretended at times like that, but now, it was no pretend. His heart race seemed to be at a dangerous level as he stood and waited for Davos reaction. No one had ever made his heart feel this way.

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

He had stopped at a vendor selling clothing, asking the man questions about how this clothing was made, how much it was, where the silks came from, and other such things. The people here were usually very kind, and Ales loved nothing more than to speak with them.

Once he was finished, he moved to leave. The clothes didn’t suit him, but it was nice to speak with this kind man. But he did not get very far when he saw a foot stop him in his tracks. A shiny, pretentiously designed boot collided with the bottom of his leg. It was too late to move away.

Falling over, the side of his cheekbone scraped the table where all of the fancy tunics and capes were laid out. He broke his fall with his hands, but the impact still caused him to gasp. The scrape on his face began to leak small tears of blood and sting ferociously.

Realizing quickly what had happened, he looked at the foot in front of him, and then the man who that foot belonged to. It had been on purpose.

The perpetrator quickly stuck out his hand for Alesander to grab onto, smiling, announcing loudly, “I am terribly sorry, you sweet thing. Let me help you up!” He spoke with all the annoyingly fake chivalry Alesander had ever known. This must be some cruel joke, Alesander thought. Just what I get for thinking I can have a nice evening.

This mysterious man had black hair that was cut short, wore a cape just like the most overpriced ones on the table, and had some sort of disastrous crown upon his head. The whole look of him would be pitiful if Alesander wasn’t so angry.

Ales slapped his hand away impulsively, and with all the anger in his voice he could muster up, he lashed out. “Fuck you, that was on purpose!” He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, examining the red trail of blood left on his clothes. His beautiful, flower patterned shirt had bloody drops on it now. Great.

“Leave me alone!” Turning away from his new enemy, Alesander felt something squeeze his hand and pull, an attempt to turn him back around.

“Please, forgive me! I only did it to grab your attention, you’re a lovely young man. I couldn’t help but be… drawn to you.”

Ales stood there for a moment, jaw dropped, dumbfounded. His eyes trailed the man’s expression, looking for any sign taunting, but he could find none. He shook off the hand that held his own. It wasn’t the hand he wanted to hold. The one filled with the henna patterns and rough, yet gentle all at the same time. Ales shook his head slowly, taking in this scene.

“So… because you’re drawn to me, you decided to harm me? Charming, truly.”

“No, no! I did not mean to slice your beautiful face, I only meant to see you smile. Let me see your smile.”

Smile?… Alesander was not smiling now. Gods, who was this idiot? He could barely believe this was happening now, in Godsgrace. It was his first encounter here in Dorne with someone who wanted him, and Alesander didn’t want this at all. There was only one person he wanted, someone he couldn’t have, someone who was the Lord of Godsgrace and his friend. Not this… man. Whoever this oaf was. Who was he?

He was the kind of man Ales always deserved, wasn’t he? The Gods must have sent him to Ales as a sad, pathetic joke. He tried handing Ales a handkerchief, but Ales only stared at the piece of cloth, continuing to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.

The bothersome man fumbled with the handkerchief, putting it back in his pocket, then, “you’re that Harrold Penrose, aren’t you? From Westeros?”

Oh Gods, it got worse. This man knew him. This man had potentially calculated this meeting, he was probably watching him shop this whole time, waiting to strike. This man thought he was his twin brother. That thought in itself almost made Ales laugh, but once again his anger overshadowed any other feeling.

“That would be my brother.” He stated, speaking with no emotion and a glare that was becoming worse by the minute.

“Ah, you’re Alesander, then. Even better!” The man’s tone was joyous now, as if they were already friends. Clearly, he’d done his research about the Penrose twins. It was disgusting.

His overly enthusiastic voice pierced Ales’ ears once again. “You know, I’ve been to Westeros myself before. Westerosi women can’t seem to get enough of me… and Westerosi men.”

They were both silent for a pause. A horrible, awkward pause.

Alesander laughed out loud, breaking the silence. A burst of horrible, uncontrollable laughter. Passers by noticed them and stared for a moment, but he could not even care. His anger washed away now, replaced by something far more amusing.

“Have I said something funny?”

“Maybe. But, what you haven’t said yet is who you even are.”

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake, one Ales ignored. “Nate. Nate Sand. I am a bastard, yes, and a bastard of a bastard of a great house! My family history all started when my great grandmother years ago…”

Nate’s story was going on for so long, Ales couldn’t remember how much time had passed with him staring at his shoes. When would this madness end? He needed to go home desperately, he wanted to see Davos again.

“Well, Nate, it’s certainly been a pleasure meeting you, but as an archivist I am very busy. Goodbye.” For the second time, Alesander turned around to leave, and for the second time, Nate grabbed his hand to pull him right back.

“Wait! I’ve heard tales of your journey here and your work as an archivist. Now seeing your face, I couldn’t help but notice how dashing we look side by side.”

Alesander had never disagreed with a sentiment more in his life. He took a good look at Nate once again, scanning his features. He was nothing like Davos… but that was a thought Ales knew he shouldn’t be thinking. Why compare others to Davos, when Davos wasn’t his to have? Why think he was worthy of Davos, when the man in front of him was exactly like everyone he’d ever deserved.

Nate was no Lyonel, no. Not a man so cold and mean that he’d string Ales along for months only to leave him suddenly, and leave him in pain. No, Nate was one of those insufferable men who talked only of their conquests and how everyone seems to want them. Ales had known hundreds of men like him, all the same. All annoying.

“Will you see me again tomorrow night? I promise you will not regret it, dear Alesander.”

Ales looked down at the bag he was carrying, swallowing hard. It contained his most prized possession at the moment. His notebook. But not just any notebook, the one Davos gave to him. The one he hugged tightly, cherishing it with every fiber of his being.

He frowned, hating that he felt inclined to now say yes to this man he disliked. He only would say yes because he did truly want to be with someone. Only that the someone was not Nate, yet that someone was not a person Ales was allowed to be with.

Alesander always had a hard time saying no to people. Even when he wanted to.

But… what would Davos think? Would he care? No… no, Ales was just his friend. His employee. He certainly wasn’t a lover of Davos. Ales and his feelings would have to stop.

His face still stung where the wooden table had cut him, a reminder of how much he loathed this man. Nate pushed once more.

“Come on, I’m a catch. What do you have to lose?”

He only deserved the worst, he deemed. And so he agreed.

He should have never walked in the room.

It had been many days since the last time he’d seen Nate. To be honest, he’d almost forgotten about the two days he’d seen him.

It had truthfully only been two days, barely even that. He’d met the insufferable man, saw him the next day, and decided he’d had enough of him.

Well, Nate more so decided he was afraid of the consequences of being with Alesander. But it worked out for Ales, as he never wanted to see this man again.

Everything was fine.

Alesander had been so focused on Davos. He’d bought the spoon for him, felt Davos’ hands all over his face, and…

Then, Nate had appeared. Everything was not fine.

Alesander felt terrible. Terrible, embarrassed, angry, every negative emotion anyone could possibly have felt before.

He had to fix this somehow. Though, he couldn’t just walk up to Davos and tell him the truth. There was no possible way he could casually say; “So sorry about that, my Lord, Nate kissed me and I accidentally spoke your name due to the fact I was thinking of you and I fancy you. That led him to believe I am your boy, and he thinks you’ll kill him for this. Just a misunderstanding!”

It was insanity. It was pathetic. No wonder Davos hadn’t even asked Alesander about what happened, it was ridiculously stupid.

And Ales still needed to fix things.

Getting Davos a gift was nothing Ales hadn’t already been planning on doing. He’d already gifted Davos the spoon, the other day, yes, but he did not want to stop there.

So perhaps a gift to smooth things over, something to make Davos smile… that’s all Ales wanted, really. They could forget about this whole idiotic situation and be friends, as they were. Just friends, still.

This time, he had picked out a book he found during another trip he took around town. A book he knew the Godsgrace library did not posses, and one he believed Davos would be interested in.

It had a lovely blue cover, which was not worn out from use or age. It held accounts from various healers from across the realm, detailing instances of rare illnesses and even rarer treatments. It was short, but still seemed like it possibly held something of value.

Walking into Davos’ office, he searched for the other man. He was nowhere to be found here, just as Ales had hoped. Not because he didn’t want to see him, no, but because he wanted Davos to find this and be surprised.

He set the book down gently on Davos’ desk, leaving a piece of paper on top.

~

- For Davos,

The library does not have this book yet, and I picked it up believing you’d have an interest in it. I haven’t read it yet myself, so I’ll be waiting to hear all your thoughts on it. I do hope it’s helpful, or at least worth the read.

I look forward to seeing you around, as always.

- Alesander Penrose ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Later that day, walking back to his room, Ales could only think of one thing. How did Davos react to the book? Did he smile? Did he begin to read it? Did his bright blue eyes scan through the pages, looking at them as intensely as he always looked at Ales?

He opened his door absentmindedly, ready to retire for the night and put on his night clothes. This week had been nothing short of exhausting, and he wanted to sleep off all of this worry and these bad feelings that lingered like rain clouds over his head that refused to break away.

Stormlander’s had always been plagued with outbursts of emotions, it was true.

But then, he spotted something. A piece of paper placed at the end of his bed, decorated with neat handwriting.

Curious, Ales picked it up delicately, as if he could break it if he held on too hard. The note was from Davos. Reading his name caused Ales’ heart to skip a beat, his eyes eagerly beginning to inspect the parchment.

~

- To Ales,

Thank you for the book, it has already earned a place as my nightly read. I’ll be sure to share any intriguing insights it offers. You have my sincere gratitude.

There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask. The Vaith Soirée is tonight. It’s an absurd gathering, as always, but I think it might be worth attending, if only to see what unfolds. I’d like you to come with me. If you’re willing, get yourself ready. I’ll come by your room to escort you.

- Davos Allyrion

~

He read the note once, twice, then three times before the contents of the letter settled into his mind.

Ales was so happy he almost screamed. He held the note close to his chest, thanking every God he could think of. Suddenly, he wasn’t exhausted, he was ready to leave with Davos and spend the night with him and-

This meant a few things.

One, Davos wasn’t upset with him for Nate’s embarrassing attempt at a confession.

Two, Davos wanted to take him somewhere. Him, of all people, Alesander Penrose. It would be just the two of them going. To a soirée. He wouldn’t let himself get his hopes up too much, but his heart had already been set on believing this meant what he wished it to mean. His heart wished for Davos.

The dough fought him.

It clung to the board, stuck to his fingers, and refused to rise as it ought, as if it too had caught the restless hum running beneath Davos’ skin. He worked it harder than needful, driving the heel of his hand into the mass, flour rising like snow around his arms and settling across the bare skin of his stomach.

He had cast off his tunic hours past, flung it over a chair in protest of the heat. Only his kilt remained, clinging where the light linen twisted, caught somewhere between despair and indecency. The oven fire crackled behind him, fed with driftwood and bark, and it painted him in gold and shadow by turns.

The glint of metal caught the firelight whenever he moved his mouth. Small hoops, one through each side of his lower lip, catching against his tongue as he worried at them. He only ever played with them like this when something sat wrong in him. Left ring, then right. Again.

A frown pulled at his brow, and he felt the tug of the ring in his nostril too, a slender Dornish band, unadorned but unforgiving when the muscle beneath it twitched with temper. And Davos was frowning now, not only at the dough, but at the memory of the evening past. The Braavosi trader had tried to cheat him, slurring through a contract Davos had drafted in words finer than the man could read. A petty insult. One Davos had bitten down rather than answer, but the venom of what he’d not said still curled beneath his tongue.

The gold he wore was no mere vanity, it was warning, meant to speak what words might not: danger, edge, coin not easily stolen. He wore them as some men wore blades.

Tonight, they only felt like trinkets.

It was late, deep into the sort of night that swallowed noise and thought alike. The flames in the oven crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a cicada trilled. Inside, Davos muttered curses at the bread.

Then—
A creak.
A footfall.

He didn’t look up at once, but he heard the breath catch. Quick, too quick. The hush of skin against stone. A pause at the threshold.

Alesander.

Davos did not turn. Not yet. But the corners of his mouth pulled, a smirk more out of habit than mirth.

“Didn’t reckon I’d have company,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon the state of me.”

He flicked a glance over his shoulder then, smirk still in place, though it felt thin as eggshell. “Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

But Alesander didn’t sit.

Davos turned back to the dough, elbows bending as he pressed into it again. He felt the weight of that gaze, not leering, not crude, but cautious. Like Alesander stood before something sacred and dared not breathe too loud for fear of shattering it.

And Davos felt it unraveling.
Something low, something coiled.
Suddenly too aware of the sweat down his spine. Of the freckle beneath his ribs. Of the gold at his mouth, warm from his tongue. Of Alesander in the middle of it, saying nothing.

He reached toward the chair, toward the tunic, and stopped. Let his hand fall.

Too hot. That was all. The oven. The fire. A dornish night. Not Alesander’s mouth, slightly parted. Not the way his fingers curled as if unsure whether to reach or retreat.

“Bread’s being stubborn,” Davos muttered, mostly to fill the quiet. His jaw tensed again, teeth clicking softly against one ring. He glanced at Ales, then away, as if the sight might burn him.

“Seems to fit the mood of the night.”

A silence followed. Then, a swallow.

Davos rolled the dough again, slower now.

“I don’t usually bake when I’m wound up,” he explained, voice lower now, hoarse with sleep or nerves or both. “But the gods know I’ve done worse when I’m restless.”

One of the piercings clinked faintly against his teeth. He said no more. The words wouldn’t come, not with Alesander standing there like that.

His brother Mors had once told him there was no shame in men, only in maidens, because shame was a woman’s burden. A lady’s place to blush. A lord’s place to laugh.

Letting Alesander see him like this—sweaty, half-dressed, wrist-deep in flour—meant nothing. Meant less than nothing. Right?

Davos felt the burn rise up his neck anyway. Shame or not, it bloomed.

Because letting Alesander see him wasn’t nothing.

Not when it was Ales.

“I assume you read my note… as I read yours,” he continued, clearing his throat and awkwardly folding a piece of bread into a tight teardrop. “You don’t have to go, truly. Only if you want to. I won’t be upset, I swear. It’s, well, it’s a dull affair anyway.”

His teeth caught one of the gold hoops in his lip, tugging until the ache anchored him.
Please say yes.

“And I wanted to thank you, Ales,” the nickname slipped from him like something precious he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to hold. “The book was brilliant. I really… I loved it. I’ll bring it to the maesters. They should read it. It’s insightful. You have an eye for that kind of thing.”

Mother Rhoyne drown me, why am I still talking?

“The library’s better for it. For you. You have excellent taste. In, um. Books. All the books.”
He winced. “Thank you. Ales. Truly.”

Clothes in the Seven Kingdoms were more than garments; they were statements. Every gem sewn into a sleeve, every thread spun from silk, whispered secrets about power, wealth, and responsibility. The weight of a chain around one’s neck could be measured in the starving bellies it overlooked. Anyone who said differently was a liar.

Davos had learned that lesson the hard way, navigating the fine line between looking like he belonged and hiding in plain sight like a pretender.

Mors had once mastered that balance effortlessly, commanding attention with just a glance. Davos, by contrast, felt like a child rifling through an adult’s wardrobe, wearing costumes for roles he didn’t believe in.

Taking Alesander to this dreadful soirée was, without question, a terrible idea. Yet it was his terrible idea, and Davos had made his peace with it. Or so he told himself. It didn’t help that Alesander had a habit of staring at him like Davos was someone worth knowing. Someone soft and unguarded. Someone better.
Something to unpack later. Much later.

“How do I look?” Davos asked, for the fifth—or fifteenth—time, tugging at the hem of his tunic in front of the mirror.

This latest ensemble was not entirely awful, he admitted grudgingly: a white tunic cinched at the waist with a golden belt etched in miniature suns, a matching cloak draped over one shoulder, leaving his chest half bare. The color brought out his eyes. Not that he cared whether Alesander noticed. Of course not. Definitely not.

Nymeria didn’t miss a beat, lounging upside down on his bed, her voice dripping with mischief. “Like you charge fifty coins an hour.”

Davos turned, horrified. “How do you even know what that means?”

Before he could launch into a moral tirade, Kierra stepped in, firm hands turning him gently back to the mirror.

“Do you feel comfortable in it?” she asked, adjusting the cloak’s clasp with practiced calm.

In my own skin? Never.
But all he said was, “Comfort’s not the point tonight.”

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. Or practicality. It was about proving something. That he belonged at court. That he was worthy of his title. That he wouldn’t fall apart when Alesander smiled at him like Davos had already won.

He exhaled through his nose. Kierra caught it, of course. She squeezed his shoulders in wordless reassurance.

“Earrings?” Larra offered brightly, dangling a pair of gold hoops like bait.

Davos sank onto the bench with a defeated sigh, letting them descend on him with combs and critiques. He’d survived worse. A soirée couldn’t kill him.

Right?

“You should wear your nose ring!” Nymeria announced, already digging through his drawers like she owned the place. “Or those poisoner bites!”

“No, no, he looks like a sellsword in those,” Larra groaned.

Naturally, Davos chose the nose ring.

“I bet twenty Ales will kiss him tonight,” Larra whisper-squealed to Kierra once Davos was fully dressed.

“If you three don’t get out of my room—”

They did not, of course, get out of his room.
But somehow, that made it easier to leave it behind.

How the Vaiths managed to turn a simple soirée into something that resembled an orgy and felt as dull as a sept sermon was beyond Davos’s understanding.
The poetry was supposed to be scandalous. He’d heard worse his first day in Braavos.
There were gasps, twirling nobles flashing glimpses of skin, far too much wine and far too little sense.

Hell. Davos was in hell.

He was pulled into a thousand conversations, all of which ended in some version of the same question: was he a eunuch, or would he like to prove otherwise?

“So,” Lord Vaith began again, droning like a wasp. The only man not trying to devour Davos with his eyes was the one trying to barter him into a marriage alliance. “Careful with the honey wine, it’s an aphrodisiac. As I was saying, you are unmarried—”
“Oh no. Has that rug ripped?” Davos interrupted, flatly, just fast enough to spit the wine back into his cup and dump it into a nearby cactus when lord Vaith went away to check on the rug.
Poor plant.

That was when he saw Alesander across the room.

He’d lost sight of him a few dances ago. Davos didn’t dance, but his dear archivist did.
Now he lounged on a plush couch, eyes tracing the awkward slope of Davos’s shoulders, lingering near his hairline, then lower, settling somewhere across his chest. The focus lingered there too long. It made Davos want to cover Alesander’s eyes. It made him want to drag Ales back to his laboratory in the tower, to ask for his help grinding dry leaves into powder, maybe his heart while they’re at it. It made him want to know what Alesander’s breath tastes like.

Alesander smiled, as though his lips don’t know how to frown, and something heavy settles on Davos’s chest. His knuckles rub against it instinctively, a futile gesture that only draws attention to his unrest.

Envy. That’s what this feeling must be.

Not mere friendship.

Not mere affection.

Davos knew he wasn’t good. He had always known. He’s a blemish on his family line, a rotting apple clinging to the branch only because it hasn’t yet fallen. He wasn’t raised right, wasn’t loved, wasn’t charming or honorable or kind the way Alesander is without even trying. That should make him hate the boy, shouldn’t it? Should give him all the justification he needs to be his most awful self. To crush Alesander in the palm of his hand.

But crushing requires touch, and touching would stain Alesander too.

He hates Alesander, Davos decided as Ales turned away to speak with a woman nearby, finally granting him a reprieve from those soft eyes. He resents the easy curve of his smile, the silkiness of his hair, the warmth of his hands, and the grace in his steps as they follow the music. Davos has always been selfish and cruel, so none of this is new.

But what cuts deeper—what made him flinch—is the realization that he’d probably sleep better on Alesander’s floor than in his own bed. That he hates how Alesander doesn’t seem to hate him back. Not one bit.

Maybe he should.

Davos permitted himself to imagine it: Alesander’s pretty face twisted in disgust, recoiling at the sight of him. It would almost be a relief, wouldn’t it? Contempt would suit him better, feel less intimate than the gentle tolerance Alesander seems to radiate.

To be seen was to be dissected.

He imagined Alesander with a scalpel, careful as a himself in the West Wing, peeling him open layer by layer. He wouldn’t resist. He would let himself be cut apart, butter-soft, blood-warm. Let Alesander search through bone and marrow, through all the rot and ruin.

Because maybe, just maybe, Alesander would find something worth liking.

Something worth wanting back.

The revelry of the soirée still hummed through the streets of Dorne, laughter and music curling through the warm night air. Davos kept his distance from the main festivities, leaning against the cool stone of an alleyway, letting the shadows fold around him like a second skin. He had no interest in watching Alesander bask in the attention of doe-eyed ladies, no patience for the syrupy lilt of their voices as they draped themselves over him, brushing fingers against his freckled skin, pressing their lips to his cheeks.

Davos should’ve left earlier. He should’ve turned away, gone back to Godsgrace and washed the night from his mind. But then Alesander stumbled out of the revel, his steps uneven, his gaze heavy-lidded, his laugh loose and warm in a way that made Davos’s stomach knot.

“Davos,” Alesander called, too loud, too eager. The way his lips curled around the name made Davos want to press a hand over his mouth, to keep it from spilling into the open air.

“You’re drunk.” Davos straightened as Alesander neared, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain whether to catch him or push him away.

Alesander hummed, then reached out and pressed a warm palm against Davos’s back. Davos choked on a breath, his body going rigid before—too easily, too instinctively—relaxing.

A mistake.

Alesander smiled, his fingers trailing against the white silk of Davos’s kilt—not a skirt, he’d insisted earlier, though Alesander had laughed and called it pretty all the same.

“You—” he began, but lost the words to another laugh, something breathy and fond. “You look good.”

Davos scoffed, turning away, unwilling to entertain whatever drunken nonsense was slipping from Alesander’s lips. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

He caught Alesander’s arm, firm but not unkind, guiding him back toward Godsgrace. Alesander let himself be led, but he kept speaking, his voice drowsy and low, spilling compliments like petals in the breeze.

“I like your hands,” he mused. “Always so careful. Like you think you’ll break things if you’re not.”

Davos clenched his jaw.
He hated his hands; scarred, calloused things, raw at the knuckles and dry at the edges from every burn, every chemical, every mistake. Ugly tools. Not made for gentleness. Not made for Ales.
He hated them.
He hated not having them on Alesander.

“You’re rambling,” he said, voice tight.

“I like your mouth, too.”

Davos faltered, heart beating in staccato.

Alesander laughed, taking his hesitation as invitation. “You don’t believe me.”

A challenge now.

A dare.

Before Davos could step back, Alesander leaned in, the scent of wine and citrus clinging to him, and pressed his lips to Davos own.

Oh. Oh.

Davos froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and yet, Alesander’s mouth was soft. His breath warm.

Why had no one told Davos that kissing felt like this?

Like warmth spreading through his chest, like something delicate and shattering all at once.

Why had his first kiss been dulled by wine?

The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, until Alesander pulled away, his brows knitting together as though he were only now realizing what he had done.

“Shit,” Alesander murmured. “Sorry—” And then he did what he always did, smoothed over the break, softened the moment, reached out and wrapped his arms around Davos in an embrace too easy, too natural.

Davos swallowed, feeling the heat of Alesander’s breath against his shoulder, the weight of him settling, trusting. His hands moved before he could stop them, rubbing slow circles against Alesander’s back.

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But even as guilt curled in his chest, he flicked his tongue out, just once, tasting the salt of Alesander’s lips, the remnants of cheap wine, the ghost of something he could never have.

Cruel, cruel fate.

Not a second had gone by where the archivist hadn’t thought of the invitation he received earlier, of what he would wear later, and of what Davos was doing at the moment.

He hadn’t seen Davos all day, there was apparently some business he needed to attend to, and Alesander had been stuck in the library as usual.

Hours had passed without Ales seeing Davos’ face, hearing his voice, trying to make him smile, and Alesander had enough. He wanted to find Davos now, tell him in person that, yes, he was going with him to this Vaith soirée. He would like to hug him as well, tell him there was nothing in the world he was looking more forward to than this, but that wasn’t an appropriate thought. One he had to keep close to his heart, where no one would ever know how he felt.

So he searched for Davos, as he did often. Looked for him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, and that finding him would mean being granted a fairytale ending for the both of them.

His first thought was his chambers, but his knock had been left unanswered.

His second thought had been the kitchens. Perhaps Davos was making himself something to eat before they left? Perhaps Alesander could trail the other man, watch him cook and observe the little things he did. Then tell him he’d be coming to the soirée, and watch for his reaction, while his heart skipped a beat.

Alesander slowly pushed the door open to the kitchens, feeling the heat from the ovens hit his face as soon as he entered.

What he saw next had sent the blood rushing to his face, even hotter than the ovens.

His prediction had been correct, Davos was here, kneading dough. A kilt on the lower half of himself, but nothing covering his chest, his arms, his torso… The quiet gasp that left his mouth was involuntary, and the visible shock could not wiped from his face.

He’d never seen Davos like this.

Ales had thought about it before, seeing Davos like this, of course. But only in secret, in his most personal moments when he allowed himself to think only for a moment that he was worthy of the other man.

But he never dreamed he’d be seeing him now, like this, completely by accident.

He couldn’t help but look. The dreaded blush had took over his face, and he now felt as though his thoughts had stopped.

“Sit, if you like. Unless you’ve taken a vow of modesty and I’m scandalizing you.”

He did not sit. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so he continued to stand there, awkwardly, not sure whether to run or to stay. “I’m sorry…” he tried to whisper, but no words had come out. The only thing that was audible to him now was the pounding of his heart, a mix of nerves and shame and…curiosity.

Curious, that Davos had asked him to sit. Curious to know what Davos thought of this, of Alesander standing not saying a word, of the tension in the air that was clearly more than the horrid heat of the night.

He tried desperately not to stare, not to be rude, to hide whatever reaction he couldn’t explain.

His eyes shifted from Davos’ unclothed chest to the rings that decorated his face now. Two on his lips, one on his nose. Whenever he spoke, the silver hoops caught the firelight, causing Ales to look closer.

His lips, his chest, his arms, what Ales would give to reach out and hold him, if even only for a moment.

Davos’ face caused for more curiosity. The smirk, the eyes that couldn’t stay on Alesander for more than a moment.

Was Davos still uncomfortable after the Nate fiasco? That must have been it.

He knew the smirk Davos wore now was not one of truth, he’d studied Davos’ face so much in the past months that he felt he knew him better than his own self. It was terrifying.

Ales’ eyes dropped to his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the bare back of the Lord who had taken him in anymore, couldn’t look at the hoops that Davos’ teeth kept grazing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to air out the heat that surrounded him.

And Davos Had continued to talk. What was he even saying? The conversation turned to his note. To the soirée. To Davos’… gratefulness.

He thanked Alesander. He complimented him. He appreciated him. He did it all without looking at him, with his chest bare and the sweat dripping from his back.

He had no idea how this affected Alesander.

Davos had spoken his name twice now. Not just “Alesander,” but “Ales”. The name his friends called him. The name that sounded like it was made to come from Davos’ lips.

Ales had to say something now.

“No need to thank me. I, well, it’s just…”

His stomach seemed to turn itself into knots, anxiety and longing mixing together. “Thank you, Dav- Davos. For inviting me. And for your kindness. I appreciate everything you do, and the person you are.” His hands shook violently, and he looked up once more.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my room… For the soirée, of course, that’s what I meant…”

And he ran.

The moment they had arrived at the soirée, Davos had been stolen away to a dozen conversations that didn’t involve Alesander. It was maddening. His mind was a frantic mess of self pity, shame, and longing.

He must have invited me out of pity.

Why is he not talking to me?

Does he hate me?

Does he want me?

I’m a terrible fool.

Gods, he felt dizzy.

Alesander had not been this drunk in a long time. He drank one cup of Dornish wine after another, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, matching the burning shame that had followed him all the way to this soirée.

He’d let the ladies fawn over him all night, give him kisses to his exposed skin as if he was a holy thing and listen to them compliment his freckles that resembled the starry sky. He would never pursue anything with them, as he had never desired a woman’s romance, but it was nice to feel wanted sometimes. It was nice to forget the shame that didn’t leave his mind.

Alesander was unsure exactly how long ago it had happened, when his shame had appeared, but it left him feeling on edge since. He’d been with that bastard of a bastard, Nate, the man he’d seen for only two nights and hated every second he’d spent with him. The first night they had met, and the second night Nate had lunged at Ales and kissed him. It was terrible.

But, Ales was lonely, and he deserved no better than the worst of the worst. The person he wanted was someone he couldn’t have, so arrogant Nate would have to do, so he thought.

But arrogant Nate was never enough, and Alesander had let his mind wander when he was with him. He’d pretended Nate’s hands were hands stained with henna, beautiful patterns gripping the soft skin of Alesander’s forearms. He’d imagined the bastards lips were replaced with the naturally pouted ones that he’d admired often, desiring them on his skin above all else.

It was all fun for a moment to pretend Nate was his true person of dreams, until the imagining had led him to doing something he’d never done before. With every man he’d been with, every short fling, every romance gone wrong, he’d never been this embarrassed.

Nate had been kissing him, too lightly and too slowly as if Ales was going to break if he’d given more pressure. So, Alesander let his mind wander, and in the midst of his pretending, he’d done it.

He’d been so deep in thought, so obsessively thinking of him, that he’d blurted out the name “Davos.”

It was him wishing out loud, perhaps. Wishing that this man who was pecking at his skin with lips he did not care for was Davos. Or perhaps his fantasy had taken over his mind and become reality, and he was a madman now. Who could know?

From then on, he’d felt the shame. He was ashamed that he’d led Nate to believe he was a paramour to the Lord of Godsgrace. He was ashamed when he’d seen Nate begging for Davos’ forgiveness, knowing all too well that Davos was not his to have, and that he was unworthy of the other man. Ales should have never allowed himself to dream of Davos, and guilt had followed him all the way to this soirée.

Upon receiving the letter of invitation for Davos, Ales had thought for a moment that there could be a chance. A chance Davos may want Ales in the same way Ales wanted him. But, it seemed that may have been false hope.

He’d seen Davos, stripped of many of his garments earlier, and felt that shame of desire. His mind has gone back to that moment many times, feeling guilty for it.

He’d watched Davos with careful eyes all night, hoping his staring wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other. Davos had hid in the shadows where Alesander had embraced the attention, and the two had not gravitated towards one another the whole night. But Ales had wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly, it was unbearable by the time he’d had his fourth cup of wine. Fourth, he’d thought, or tenth cup? What did it matter when all he could think of at the moment was his lovely Lord dressed in white silk, an outfit Alesander had complimented him on earlier. He had to do it again. So he stumbled his way over to Davos.

Away from the crowd, the air was lighter, and Alesander felt as if he could finally breathe. With Davos in front of him, it was even more of a relief. Ales called the other man’s name, calling for him as a wife calls for their husband, begging for a hug or a kiss or anything-

Then there was Davos’ voice, stern and rough, and so pleasing to Alesanders ears. What did he say? Ales couldn’t focus, and he felt dizzy again, so to steady himself, he put his hand on Davos’ back. The skin that met his hand was warm, the skin he’d only dreamed of touching one day, sun tanned skin that belonged to the Lord whom he was working for.

The silk, he thought to himself, moving his hand farther down Davos’ back as if he were trying to feel every inch of the backside of him. His eyes trailed up and down the other man, remembering suddenly why he was so eager to talk to Davos. He looks amazing. I love how he looks.

“You-“ Alesander paused to laugh, finding his honesty all very funny. Finding it even more funny that he was able to stand with a man who looked this good, he was unworthy, and it was all hilarious.

“You look good.”

But his lovely Lord only scoffed, and Alesander frowned. He then felt a firm grip on his arm. Looking down, he noticed it was Davos hand that gripped him now, and he couldn’t contain the excitement as he allowed himself to be led.

The words seemed to come out without him willing them to, one compliment after the other, for no reason other than he wanted to say them. Davos was saying something now, something about rambling, but all Ales knew was that those words had come out of lips he so desperately wanted to feel.

“I like your mouth, too.” He’d blurted out.

It was the one thing to make Davos falter. Of all things, his mouth being praised. Was that a sign?

Did Davos not believe his mouth to be desirable? Ales would not accept that. He wanted Davos to know every inch of him was beautiful, every piece of him. Everything about him was wonderful and suddenly Ales couldn’t think straight. He wanted to kiss Davos.

“You don’t believe me?”

So he did it. Gently, but immediately, he kissed Davos. How many times had the thought about kissing him since he had come to Godsgrace? Too many times, and too many times had he not done it. Because he was overflowing with emotions now, ones he wanted so desperately to cling on to.

Davos lips felt like they were right where they were supposed to be, on Alesanders. He kept them there for a moment, holding onto this feeling. He almost went to deepen the kiss, but then he realized something.

But Davos wasn’t kissing back.

His mind, fogged with alcohol, seemed to get clearer with that revelation.

He did not kiss back.

That feeling of shame that he’d been running from all night came rushing back, filling his chest with regret and his face with sorrow. He was not worthy of Davos, he had just kissed him and he hadn’t even thought before he’d done it, he was unworthy.

“Shit,” he muttered

How could he apologize? Should he get on his knees again? It was all so much, and for what seemed the hundredth time this night, he was dizzy.

He had to apologize. “Sorry-“ he blurted out, practically falling into Davos’ arms. Back at home, if Ales ever felt someone was hurting, he was never shy with a warm hug. He and Davos’ had never hugged before, but he could think of nothing else to do besides cling onto him for dear life and hope he would forgive him. Because, if Davos did not forgive Alesander, then all would be terrible. The trees would wilt, the grass would turn yellow, the sky would turn gray, the-

His thoughts stopped when he felt Davos hand move across his back, rubbing him as if he were comforting a child. As if Ales was worthy of any comfort.

To that, Alesander held on tighter, nuzzling his face in the crook of Davos neck. Maybe all was well. Maybe it was selfish to keep holding on to savor this moment of comfort, but he did not care. He inhaled the smell of Davos, memorizing it in his bones.

He knew he was drunk, but he also knew something else. He was in love with Davos Allyrion.

The castle was snug and airy in the morning hour. It felt like the Parchments did after a long of day of storms, when the sun had finally returned and touched everything with its warmth, but the raindrops had remained in the grass and the castle was still damp.

Alesander laid in his bed, lounging, waiting for something. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew he needed to keep waiting. He felt the anticipation in his heart, the feeling that the climax of the story was about to happen.

His open window spilled orange sunlight onto the tiles of the floor reminding him of home once again. Home.

Home was a strange word to him now. What was home? Kings Landing? The Parchments? Godsgrace?

The Parchments certainly wasn’t home, no matter if it was where he grew up or not. He had no friends there, only memories of the boys who would poke fun at him in the training yard, of the ladies who would snicker as he walked by.

Kings Landing wasn’t home either. His loved ones were there, but his heart wasn’t. How many days had he spent there, miserable and useless, wishing he knew a place to go where he could breathe finally.

But Godsgrace… The place where he had purpose, found people to call his friends, didn’t spend every second brooding over himself like a fool. The place where Davos was.

Was that what home was like?

He felt the soft sheets beneath his fingers, observed the patterns that were pleasing to his eyes, much more pleasing than the ones on his bed back at Kings Landing.

His call for home was suddenly answered, as his door opened without warning. Davos. There he was, rushing through the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world to him to barge into Alesander’s room.

The bright sun covered all of him, he nearly glowed in the morning light, and Ales’ heart jumped at the sight of him.

He approached Ales on the bed, rose in hand, a soft look on his face. His beauty and kindness made Ales want to cry.

“I’m so sorry, love, for last night, please forgive me. I’ve forgiven you already.”

The rose seemed to disappear, and Davos then grabbed Ales’ hands with his own.

It was a dream come true. His prince, his fairytale love, his Davos, was holding his hands as if they were about to say their vows.

Alesander almost smiled, until he processed what the other man had said. “Last night? What are you talking about…”

Davos then pulled him into a hug. “Shh,” he softly said into Ales’ ear. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

“Okay…” Ales complied, confused, but melting into the warmth of his Davos.

Then, the warmth faded. Everything felt blurry, and his heart began to race. He woke with a startle. His mind stirred before his eyes opened, and the splitting headache caused him to shut his eyes tightly. Seven Hells, how much did I drink last night?

There was no warm light this morning, no reminders the Stormlands here. It was dark in his room, and still hot, but not the comfortable kind.

He kicked the sheets off of him, as they were unbearably hot, then opened his eyes at last.

No rose. No mellow air. No Davos. It had all been a dream.

Just Alesander and his headache remained. That, and the pang in his heart.

How sad was it, that he was dreaming things like this? He could barely touch Davos in real life without blushing, he wasn’t worthy of that touch and dreaming of him in this way was just pathetic-

But, then the memories of last night came rushing back. The kiss. He’d kissed Davos. Oh gods, and Davos didn’t kiss back.

The memory hurt worse than his pounding head.

Alesander put his head in his hands, groaning from the piercing headache and the shame. Shame, it was all he seemed to feel as of late. It was what he deserved, he supposed.

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

His dream had the right of it, he wanted to forget last night ever happened. But he knew he never could, no matter how much his heart broke at the thought of it. He’d have to get dressed soon, to eat and try to fight off this headache, then face the Lord of Godsgrace. The Lord who he thought so stupidly to kiss.

Ales had wanted to kiss him for so long. He’d done it now, and everything was all wrong.

“Would you mind dropping off those books at the library for m—” Kiera began, but the words broke off.

“I won’t be leaving the laboratory today.”

Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after.

He had been avoiding Alesander like the plague since the kiss.

It had been a week ago, in the dim glow of a lamplight, with Alesander drunk and laughing, his breath warm and sweet with wine. Davos had meant to pull away, to laugh it off as a drunken mistake. Instead, he lingered. His hands had clutched Alesander’s shoulders, his heart hammering like a war drum. When Alesander stumbled back, his eyes wide with confusion, Davos had reassured him, guided his stumbling steps back to the safety of Godsgrace’s walls.

Then he fled.

He had been fleeing ever since: ducking him in the halls, burying himself in work, pretending the memory of that kiss didn’t follow him like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

Then came the weekend.

On the first day, the headaches began. Davos endured them; pain was predictable, a companion as old as the sunrise. On the second day, his focus frayed; common enough since Alesander had arrived at Godsgrace. By the third, Davos was certain the gods had consigned him to a punishment worse than the Wall.

The pain dug in behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though invisible fingers were prying open his skull.

He had dissected enough heads to imagine it might feel exactly like this: pressure that blurred his vision and locked muscles he hadn’t known he had. Staggering back to his chambers, he collided with someone in the hall. Of course—Alesander. Who else would the gods send to witness his collapse? Then the nausea struck, his mouth flooding with saliva, his stomach heaving like a storm-tossed sea.

“You look terrible,” Larra observed for what felt like the thousandth time.

Davos only hummed, chest heaving. His tunic lay discarded, soaked through with sweat. He must have looked like death; even Alesander seemed unable to look at him too long, standing awkwardly in the corner after summoning help.

“I’ll live,” Davos rasped. “It’s just a migraine.”

“I’ll fetch milk of the poppy. You need rest.”

He scowled, lips parting to protest, but Larra pressed the draught to his mouth before he could speak. The familiar bitterness slid down his throat. The loss of control unsettled him, but it was the only way to stop the slaughter in his skull. Larra was too much like him, unyielding, merciless in her care.

“Ales, stay with him,” she commanded. “He has a bad habit of sneaking out and fainting in hallways.”

“That happened once,” Davos muttered. Then, grudgingly, “Maybe twice.”

“Four times,” she corrected. “Rest.”

“I hate resting,” he groused, his voice already thickening as the poppy loosened his tongue. A prickling warmth spread across his face, a haze creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“I hate seeing you sick,” she said simply. She pressed a kiss to his damp forehead and left, tossing one last sharp look at Alesander before closing the door.

And then he was alone.
With Ales.
High as one of the Targaryens’ dragons.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Davos drawled, trying for steady but slurring instead. A weak chuckle slipped out. Gods, he must look pathetic. “But you will… like a dutiful little soldier. Well, not little. Not that little… You’re just a tad shorter than me. I like that you’re shorter than me…”

He pressed his palms against his eyes, grimacing as the words spilled unfiltered. When he looked again, Alesander’s eyes—green, bright, startled—met his, and Davos couldn’t look away.

“Like an owl…” Davos murmured, giggling, the sound strange even to him. “Your eyes. You’re… you’re pretty. Very pretty. Is ‘pretty’ emasculating? You’re handsome too. Sometimes I think…” His voice faltered, caught between confession and pain. His left eye squeezed shut, the throb blinding. “…sometimes I think I’d be better if you told me what to do. What to want. Like an owl on my shoulder.”

A sigh shuddered out of him. He reached clumsily for the water at his bedside, but Alesander was quicker, holding it out. Their fingers brushed. Davos nearly leaned forward to kiss the pale hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, managing a crooked smile. “I wish we’d met sooner.”

The rest pressed inside him like a tide, threatening to drown him. I don’t just want you in my future. I want you in my past. I want us as children with dirty hands, as boys with scraped knees, as wildflowers growing side by side. I want my whole life rewritten with you threaded through it.

But all that escaped was a fragile murmur: “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His head lolled against Alesander’s shoulder, breath shallow. He barely registered Ales beginning to rise, muttering something about leaving. No. That wouldn’t do.

“Don’t go,” Davos pleaded softly. “Please. Stay.”

Alesander hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed beside him. Relief loosened Davos’s chest. He shifted, resting his head against Ales’s thigh, lips brushing the fabric of his tunic as he breathed him in. Warm, tense and painfully human.

“Thank you,” Davos whispered, his eyes drifting shut. And Alesander stayed.

Perhaps the world did not hate him after all.

Davos does not dream.

Not anymore.

The dreamcatcher sways above his bed, a delicate net of beads and feathers bought in Lys, blessed by a priest whose words he cannot recall. Before it, there were night terrors so violent he once had to bind himself to the bed with knots at wrist and ankle, lest he claw open his own skin in sleep. Nighttime has always been a battlefield.

Davos does not dream.

Yet milk of the poppy makes a liar of him. It loosens his tongue, thins the walls of his mind, and when the tide comes rushing in, he is dragged under without a struggle.

He knows it is not real, this warmth pressed against his jaw. He knows, and still he shivers at the sound.
“Davos…”

Ales’ voice, sweet as song, lilts through the air. His name has never sounded so lovely, so whole. He wonders if this is how it was always meant to be spoken, if every other voice had only been an imitation until now.

“You’re not real,” he forces out, stubborn even against mercy. A masochist in his own subconscious.

Lips skim from jaw to mouth, hot and unrelenting. His eyes betray him, fluttering shut. The world blurs. 
“You remember,” Ales whispers, smiling as if it costs him nothing, “you remember what it felt like to kiss me…”

Davos watches the curls shake free of his face, the flick of his tongue, and fury prickles under his skin; how had he managed half a year without thinking of this mouth? How had he ignored something so obvious, so damning?

“You don’t want me,” Davos insists, grasping for reason, for excuses to bar the tide. “You only kissed me because of the wine—the night—the haze—I don’t blame you, those things happen—”

Dream-Ales does not rebuke him. He leans closer, catches Davos’ hair in his fist, and pulls until fire blooms across his scalp. The pain is clean, undeniable, frighteningly real.
“Is it that terrifying, to be wanted?”

The question carves him apart, blade sliding from throat to sternum, ribs splintering beneath it. He should deny it. He should laugh. He should call this fever, hallucination, torment. But his lips part around something smaller, needier. His head tips back, pleading silently for a harsher tug.

“Terrifying,” he confesses, the word a broken breath. “Please. Kiss me again.”

The first time Davos saw Alesander, he thought him a mirage, a trick of light. An angel. And oh, how merciful his angel seems now.

Ales bends to him. He kisses the pout away, kisses the air from his lungs, kisses until the borders of their bodies unravel into heat and weight and trembling skin. Davos is frantic, desperate to match the rhythm, to shape himself into the plea his mouth cannot form. Please, please—

Which is why he doesn’t notice. Not at first. The hand sliding down his arm, fingers peeling his sleeve back inch by inch.

The knife waits there.
The Black Thorn. Needle-thin, steel honed cruel and bright.

The kiss turns to a bite, sharp and tearing. He tastes copper, blood blooming against his tongue. For a moment it is like piercing his own lip rings, pain married to pleasure, bearable, almost welcome. His angel tastes of blood, and Davos swallows greedily, unthinking.

Then the smile breaks. And rots. Teeth red, voice soured with scorn.
“As if, butcher…”

The words are acid. The smile curdles red, teeth stained. Davos’ throat locks tight; an apology scrambles up but never leaves his mouth. Black Thorn punches into his heart he just bared before he can draw breath.

The world lurches. Shatters.

His eyes rip open. His chest heaves in violent, uneven gulps, dragging for air that feels too thin. He clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, the dog-like panting that betrays him. Tears rise and spill, tracking silently into his hairline until they vanish.

It was only a nightmare.
Only the poppy’s cruelty.

Ales is slumped in the armchair beside the bed, head tilted, one arm folded beneath him in sleep. Peaceful.
Ales wouldn’t hurt him.
Ales wouldn’t betray him.
And Ales would never want him while sober.

Sleep overtook Davos as soon as he blinked.

The second dream was, punishingly, a memory.

The rain had started before dawn and hadn’t stopped since. It fell like a quiet judgment, seeping through stone and silence alike. The keep was still, the kind of still that comes when grief hovers in the eaves, waiting to settle in every corner.

Ferris Allyrion was dying. Had been for weeks, months, maybe, if Davos was honest. And gods knew he had tried to lie.

To everyone. To himself.

Kneeling for hours each night until his knees bruised purple beneath his robes, palms pressed together like he could bargain his father’s life in exchange for bone-deep devotion. He prayed until his voice went hoarse, until his spine curled like a bowstring. Until Nymeria started leaving food at his door instead of asking him to come eat.

It hadn’t worked.

So he turned to what did.

The West Wing had once been a disused bathing chamber. Large enough. Out of the way. Private. It was quiet down there, humid, chalk-scented, thick with crushed herbs and sulfur. The walls sweated. So did Davos.

Nowadays, the West Wing smelled faintly of death.

Not rot, he kept it clean. Sterile. Bleached. But the scent clung in the corners anyway, in the stone and the silence, in the bloodied linens and half-shattered glass. It was the smell of endings, of finality. A place where life was bargained for and sometimes lost.

Davos hadn’t meant for it to become that.

It had started with his father—their father. Ferris, strong and golden once, the pillar of the Allyrion family, now shaking in his bed, purple-mottled and burning with fever that no prayer could lower. Maesters had come and gone, more confused each time. Bleeding, bruising, trembling. They didn’t know what it was.

But Davos had wanted to know. Needed to.

The first man laying over his table had been a butcher who carved a child as easily as a pig. No one mourned him. He begged to be saved, claimed he didn’t want to die. Davos gave him something experimental. He died anyway.

The second man lived. The third too. By the fifth, they started coming on their own; peasants with tumors, merchants with failing lungs, children with bleeding mouths and cracked skin. They called Davos a savior. The name stung.

He wasn’t saving anyone. He was trying.

When a patient failed, when the medicine collapsed a lung instead of healing it, he couldn’t risk questions. The sulfuric acid fizzed low, a quiet hiss. He could smell it under the surgical tinctures.

The sickness in Ferris was cruel and ever-changing, and Davos studied every lesion, every cough, every trembling inch of his father’s failing body. The maesters had given up. Davos had not. He could not.

Until Mors found the West Wing.

Davos had barely stepped out of that hellhole when he saw his brother standing in the hallway, wide-eyed. Pale. Holding a scrap of bloodstained gauze like it had betrayed him. He smelled of wine and rage. His shirt was half-buttoned, sword belt dragging behind him like he’d forgotten it mid-drink. His eyes, the same blue, storm clouded they both inherited from their mother, locked onto the tub. Then the table. Then Davos.

“Mors,” Davos had said, too quiet. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” The laugh came ragged, broken by rage. “You’re turning our home into a butcher’s den, and you want to explain?”

He ran. Davos chased.

They caught up in the corridor, just shy of their father’s door. The shouting came hard, bitter as peaches left too long in the sun.

“They wanted help,” Davos said. “I never forced them. They came to me—”

“You’re melting them, Davos!” Mors’ voice cracked. “You’re melting them down like waste when it doesn’t work. You think you’re the gods? You think this is mercy?”

“It’s for father!” Davos screamed, voice strangled in his throat. “I’m trying—”

And then the first punch came.

His lip split. He staggered back.

A second punch. Third. Davos didn’t fight back. He let Mors swing until the fury turned wild and wet, until Uncle Ryon stepped between them and held Mors back, arm to chest.

“You don’t touch your brother again,” Ryon said, low and deadly. “Not while I draw breath.”

“He’s a monster,” Mors spat. “I should’ve killed him in his cradle—”

“Enough!”

Mors pulled from Ryon’s grip and landed a last punch on the wall, rattling the paintings nearby. It felt like mercy. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this. I won’t. If there’s any gods left, they’ve turned their backs on this devil and anyone who stands by him!”

Davos’ eyes fluttered shut. There were more screams, something broke. A glass perhaps? He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the soft step of boots. He knew the sound. Knew it wasn’t Mors, this step was lighter, steadier. Familiar.

“Is he gone?” Davos asked, voice low and torn.

Ryon didn’t answer right away. Then a quiet breath. “He took a mare and rode toward Vaith. Won’t get far before nightfall.”

“Will you leave too?”

“No,” Ryon said. Firm. Unshaken. “I’d have done the same. Gods know I’ve thought of it, when I watched my wife coughing blood and the maester offered leeches like that would cleanse her lungs.” A pause. “I buried her anyway.”

Davos closed his eyes.

Ryon stepped forward, placed a hand on Davos’ shoulder—the unbruised one. His touch was warm. “You haven’t lost your soul, lad. You’re trying to do right by the ones you love. The rest of the world may never understand, but I do. So will your father, if he wakes.”

If.

Ryon left him in silence, the way good men do. No sermon. No plea for atonement.

Davos didn’t know how long he laid there in the middle of the hallway before another sound reached him.

Quieter steps now. The whisper of soft sandals. A shift of linen. Twin shadows in the doorway.

Nymeria and Larra, shoulder to shoulder, like they always were. Their eyes held no judgment. Just the wide gaze of girls who’d grown up too fast in the shadow of dying men.

“You can leave too,” Davos said, the words rough and fragile. “You don’t have to stay here. With me. In this place.”

Nymeria tilted her head, brows knitting. “You’re our brother.”

Larra lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “Why would we leave you?”

Davos turned toward them slowly. There were red half-moons pressed into his palms from his own nails. His jaw ached. His knees hurt. But there was light in the room now, golden and pale from the open hall behind them. And their silhouettes glowed at the edges, just like the angels they were.

Davos blinked against the sting in his eyes.

He was covered in guilt. In wounds he’d given and ones he’d taken. But his sisters stood beside him.

Maybe the gods hadn’t answered his prayers.

But his family still did.

By the time he dragged himself up that afternoon, his skin felt torn raw.

The poppy left a trail in Davos’ mind, like ink bleeding into water, swirling indistinctly. He had murmured things into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drugged. The fever made his limbs too long for his own skin, and he’d sunk into the warmth of his sheets as if the bed itself wanted to swallow him whole.

But what he remembered most was Alesander’s voice.

Low, rhythmic. A tide. He remembered fingers in his hair, smoothing it back again and again. A cool cloth on his brow. Words spoken not to shame him, not to beg or demand, but to soothe. Like he was worthy of comfort. Like he was deserving.

Ales had touched his back in slow circles, drawing stars in a sky no one else could see. And Davos had whispered: “You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Had he imagined that? Or had Ales answered, smiling in the dark like he wasn’t tending to a fevered man with more secrets than saints? He’d murmured things he shouldn’t have. Soft confessions, sweet nothings, desperate thank-yous from a tongue that rarely shaped kindness.

“Don’t adore me. I belong in a grave, not an altar.”

He didn't know if Ales had heard him. Or for how long he had stayed.

When Davos finally woke, clear-eyed and uncomfortably dry-mouthed, the room was empty. The fever was gone. So was Alesander.

Davos sat up, staring at the crumpled linens, unsure if he should be grateful or grieving. He’d barely looked at the bed when he left it, he hadn’t dared. It was empty. Alesander was gone. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was rejection. He couldn’t afford to wonder. Not now.

Back in his laboratory, the silence was reassuring, structured. The tinctures were neatly labeled. Mortar and pestle in hand, Davos returned to what he knew. The work. The rhythm.

Davos was halfway through steeping crushed ginger root when he remembered what he was doing before this whole mess—the West Wing. He walked briskly through the corridor, mouth tight, mind flicking through formulas and ratios. The bodies were gone, dissolved, but the bath still reeked. If he didn’t neutralize the acid, it would start corroding the steel supports.

He didn’t expect the door to be ajar.

Didn’t expect the flicker of torchlight inside.

He stopped. For a moment, the air stood still.

Then Davos stepped inside.

And froze.

Alesander stood by the edge of the tub, the light casting long shadows over his face, and he looked afraid.

Not curious, not confused. Terrified.

His eyes locked on the stained tables. The chains. The half-cleaned bone saw. The surgical notes pinned with bloody thumbprints. The tub itself—boiling slightly, even now. The smell was metallic and sweet and unholy.

“Ales—” His voice cracked. It wasn’t enough to stop him from stepping forward instinctively, reaching.

Alesander stepped back.

The breath left Davos like a prayer gone wrong.

“No,” he said, softly. “No, no—”

He’s afraid of me.

It hit him like a blow. Not the fear itself—he'd seen fear before, been called monster, butcher, shadow of a man—but not his fear. Not Alesander’s. Not him, not the man who’d kissed him with wine stained lips and held him through sweats and shivers, not the one who tucked the sheets under Davos’ chin and whispered comfort like scripture.

Davos still smelled of lavender oil and milk of the poppy. Alesander’s scent lingered on him, soft and floral and clean. Davos wanted to tear it off his skin. He wanted to scrub until the blood came through.

“I told you not to come here. I was clear in my orders,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, too calm. “I told you—”

He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved in his throat, thick as bile. He let the pestle drop to the ground. It thudded harmlessly against the stone.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Alesander was still frozen. Still watching him.

The monster in the dark.

Davos’ stomach twisted. He looked at his hands; clean, but never fully. He remembered the way Alesander’s fingers had threaded through his hair. He remembered drifting off to the sound of Alesander’s voice. He remembered peace.

He stepped back now. Slowly. Like he was the one being hunted.

“You should leave...”

No response.

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing. Horror? Guilt? Or worse, something calm, something clinical. The same face he wore when slicing open a man’s belly, praying the cause of the illness was within reach.

“Leave, Alesander! LEAVE!”

Davos was not one to shout, but heartbreak had a way of tearing the voice from his throat, raw and jagged. As if grief alone could give Alesander a reason to flinch.

To turn away.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted, but the one he knew he deserved.

He’d messed up, badly, and this was the consequence.

By the third day of silence from his Lord Davos, he began to shed tears. Frustrated, tiny tears fell from his eyes, and he wiped them furiously before others in the library could notice.

No, Ales, he thought to himself. You can’t cry. This is what happens when you act a fool.

Then, stop crying over a man who you knew you were never allowed to have. He felt the pang in his heart.

Davos wasn’t just a man he wasn’t allowed to have, though, he was Davos. Smart, kind, gentle, strong. Someone who noticed Ales, not just in passing, but truly looked at Ales. Someone who never made Ales feel lesser, who tried to bring him out of his habit of self-pity. He was everything. And Ales had thrown it all away with a single kiss.

He looked down at his journal, where a stray tear had stained a part of the page. It had landed on the word “fool.” How perfectly ironic, it was.

I won’t cry anymore. I’ll work. It’s why I’m here, after all. Just an employ.

So, he worked.

He put away books that hadn’t been put away. He’d swept, yes, swept until every single grain of sand and particle of dust ran away, leaving the books and the floor happier for it.

He replied to letters, written down things he needed to remember, and filled up the ink pots until there seemed to be no pot in Godsgrace that was empty.

He occupied his mind, yet, looked for Davos in every corners of the library. But he did not come.

Until he did.

Things had almost felt normal. A week had almost passed, and he’d continued his work.

Normal, except for the missing presence of the person who he wished was by his side the most.

Ales had been walking through the hallway, looking for Kiera. She’d told him something about meeting her in her rooms to discuss books she’d found, somewhere, or maybe she’d said something about an outfit?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted now by Alesander colliding with someone.

He’d have apologized, his usual first instinct, but he instantly realized who it was.

Davos.

He was too stunned to speak. Too heartbroken to know what to say. Too ashamed to face this.

But, something wasn’t right. Wasn’t Davos avoiding him? How did he not see Alesander around the corner? Why was he so… pale?

“Uhm, I-“ Ales’ words were cut short, as he watched Davos quickly turn away, gagging.

“Davos!” The sweat on his forehead and his hunched over body was a clear indicator that he was *unwell.*

“Gods, you’re sick, I-“

He paused, wanting to put his hand on Davos, but thought better of it.

“I’ll get help.”

Ales would have left. He would have been content with knowing Davos had taken something for the pain, and that he would be better soon. He would have swallowed the fact that Davos didn’t want him anywhere near, and left.

But that had been proven to be untrue.

Davos rambled on, about height, and prettiness, and things Ales felt his heart lunge at. Had the milk of the poppy made Davos say lies? Or…

Then, “I want to have been by your side through it all. For all time.”

His lunging heart now felt pained. Ales so desperately wanted to say that he felt the same way, that the past week had torn him apart, and that he couldn’t stand to be away from Davos. That he couldn’t stand that they’d been away from each other their whole lives.

If only he was there in his youth to love Davos liked he deserved. If only he had Davos to care for him in his youth.

But he’d already ruined things once, with a kiss that he hoped said it all. So he settled for a soft look, then tried to excuse himself. He wouldn’t hurt Davos any longer.

Davos’ voice, sudden and pleading, stopped him from rising further.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He doesn’t want me to leave? He thought, incredulously.

Slowly, Ales sat himself back on the bed. A weight suddenly appeared on his thigh, from Davos’ head that lay there now.

Was this forgiveness? He wondered. Or, was Davos ever truly mad at me?

That did not matter now, as Davos was here now, in Ales’ lap, and he needed him.

“Shh, no need to thank me.” He spoke, as soft as the hair that he threaded his hands through now. “I’m here.”

He held Davos now, truly held him. His hands trailed from his dark hair to his back, rubbing the tense muscles there.

Davos had continued to move around, uncomfortable in his sickness, and Alesander moved with him. Every toss and turn was met with another rub at his back, soothing of his hair, and a sweet whisper.

“It’s okay, it will pass soon.”

“Close your eyes, you’ll feel better when you wake.”

“I’m here. I’ll hold you.”

Watching Davos, feeling him and truly being here with him, made Ales suddenly have a memory of his parents.

He was five, and they were at the Parchments. A terrible sickness had made its way through the Stormlands, and the Penrose’s were its victims at some point. Both Harrold and himself had gotten it, a fever that made them unable to leave their bed and shiver as if it was winter. But it was his father, Sebastion, who’d been hit the worst.

Talisa, his mother, had stayed by his side the whole time. She’d told the maesters to stay away, that she would care for him, and she truly did.

Ales, being her little shadow, had watched her do it all. Bring him water, cup his cheek, whisper to him.

Then, Ales had been a curious child, trailing his mother. Now, he understood. Being there for the one you love comes as easy as breathing.

Larra had come back with a damp cloth at some point, observing the scene with careful eyes. Davos, muttering something into the thigh of Alesander, and Alesander petting his hair in return.

She shot Ales a look, one of knowing, one of softness.

Ales had thanked her, she smiled back.

She closed the door, and he saw Davos tense at the noise of it. Another sudden pain, Ales knew by the tightly shut eyes.

He put the cool cloth to Davos’ forehead, continuing to trace his fingers up and down the other man’s spine.

“You are kind the way I am cruel. How did I trick you into staying?”

Ales frowned at that. “Cruel? Trick?” He whispered back, care and kindness in his voice. “No. You have a kind soul, and I’d never leave you.”

He brushed more of the hair out of Davos’ face, saying, ”I’ll care for you. Always.”

Alesander awoke with a crook in his neck, one he knew was from the position he’d slept in. The chair had not been comfortable, and the pain in his back made that clear now.

But it had been worth it.

Once Davos had finally fallen asleep, Alesander pulled up a chair to his bedside, and had fallen asleep there himself.

It was morning now, and Davos still slept.

Good, Ales thought fondly, he needs rest.

He watched Davos’ chest rise and fall with his breaths, observed the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how he looked more peaceful than Ales had ever seen him.

There wasn’t anything Alesander wouldn’t do to be able to wake up next to him, to see him like this every day.

He sighed, positioning himself upright. His thoughts went back to last night.

Davos had said many things last night. Thank you’s, questions, things that didn’t quite make sense to Alesander’s ears, and Alesander continued to hold him through it.

Looking at Davos now, curled up and eyes shut, he remembered something.

The West Wing. Davos had said something about it, in his haze of sickness. Ales could not recall the specifics of it, but he remembered it had made him curious.

Ales had been told to, under any circumstances, never go to the West Wing. It had been clear from the moment he began working here. Something about it being shut down?

He hadn’t thought much of it, perhaps it was to be fixed at some point and was a danger to go near. It had nothing to do with the library, so he ignored it completely.

Until last night. Why had Davos brought it up?

In a way he couldn’t understand, the thought of it stuck with him. The way Davos had said it… It had to be nothing, right? Just a closed off section of the castle, waiting to be put back to use.

But, Ales had put the library back together. He’d explored every inch of the library, making it into the organized, pleasing thing it is now.

Alesander had always been a curious man, sometimes to his detriment, but nonetheless curious. His curiousness of Davos had led him to Godsgrace, and that had turned out for the better, so…

Why not have a look around?

He thought hard again, looking at the sleeping Lord in front of him, donned in the same clothes he’d been wearing since Ales held him. No, not a Lord now, just Davos. Sleeping sweetly, Davos.

Alesander had explored almost every single place in the castle. Almost. The thought gnawed at him until he got up.

It won’t hurt to explore. Maybe it’s something I can fix?

Quietly, he rose, making sure to not wake Davos, and started his journey towards the West Wing.