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Davos sits on his chair, next to the bed, in his new room. Small, but larger than that in which he had slept the previous night. He stares down at his stumped fingers, still wrapped in gauze, and numb: on the small desk nearby, placed in a tiny cup, are his four fingertips.
It doesn’t hurt as much as earlier, he can barely tell the difference from before and after the cleaver had mutilated him, or at least that’s what he tells himself: old lashes scars on his back still burn him after years, much more painful than this.
At first, when the young Lord, Stannis, had grabbed his hand, and told him he’d pay for his crimes as a smuggler, he’d figured the Lord wanted to cut off his hand whole, but no: he was not as cruel - only four fingertips, from the left hand.
Four less fingernails to clean, that’s all he had thought when the blade went down.
The Maester - Maester Cressen - had carefully treated the wounds, disinfected them and stitched them up, and had obliged when Davos had asked him if he could keep what had been taken off of him.
Someone knocks on the door, twice.
“Come in,” he says, and when the door opens, and Lord Stannis stands on the threshold, Davos hurries up to stand, and bow his head to the side, “M’lord,” he greets.
The window is dirty and the light is badly filtered - but it’s better than being with no window at all. Stannis takes a step in, just enough to close the door behind him: Davos notices he’s not wearing his armor breastplate, just the chainmail, though he still has long metal cuffs at both his arms and shins.
“It is my Lord, Davos,” he corrects him, quietly, almost patronizing - the man wouldn’t have accepted this tone from a boy of that age, if that boy were a commoner too, but this one was a Lord, and a Lord who had just cut off parts of his finger, but also a Lord who had promised him lands, and knighthood.
He nods, with half a smile, noticeable under his beard, “Yes, my Lord.”
There is silence, for just a few seconds, Stannis is tall, near the door frame, his long arms hanging at his sides, hands in loose fists. He’s not wearing gloves, either.
Davos doesn’t take his eyes off him - can’t, for some strange reason. Usually he avoids keeping his eyes on highborns, and the Lord isn’t even really looking at him, he’s glancing at the stumped hand, and blinking.
Stannis purses his lips, they’re choppy, evidently have been bleeding, because some traces of red are still there, and a corner has a small cut. Finally he speaks,
“I suppose, I should’ve knighted you first, at least,” he points at Davos’ head with his finger, “To soothe that,”
“I’ve been through worse, My Lord,” he reassures him,
“I had to,” Stannis insists, he steps closer, something in Davos tells him he should take a step back, something else tells him he should stay right where he is, “You were a criminal, I show no mercy to lawbreakers” - and yet, taking only his fingertips and not the whole hand was mercy -
“It is my duty,” Davos can tell that young man really loves that word, “As a Lord,”
Stannis’ grey blue eyes now stare right through his, his gaunt look and the poor light make him similar almost to a ghost,
“My duty, as a man,” and he seems, almost involuntarily, to enunciate that word, man, “As a man of honor,”
The other lets him talk, and lets him step closer, he wants to reply, again, with something short, grateful, kind, but can’t find other words, while Stannis continues to talk. His eyes scan the young man’s face, it is harsh with hunger, a strong jaw, but the way he’s speaking now, it gives him a gentler, softer look,
“You will become Ser before dusk,” he continues, now there’s less of an arm’s distance between the two, “I shall knight you in the very same place where I’ve cut your fingertips off,”
Davos nods, again, cordially, and then notices Stannis seems to still have something to say. His lips open and close, a movement barely noticeable, he can’t get the words out of his mouth, whatever words they are, he bites on the inside of his cheek, Davos can see the skin move. The young Lord’s ears seems as if they’ve been burned by hot iron, reddened at the top,
“Before then, however,” seems to have gathered the strength to say it, but he always halts. The grey-blue eyes wander off, and that does most of the talking, to Davos: Stannis looks at his face, his lips, his neck, they lower ever so slightly looking at his chest, and then run back to his face, “I would like you to,”
Davos eases his posture a bit, craning his head to the side just a bit: he knows what that man wants, he can tell, and that’s what he wants, too - but he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t do the first step,
“I would,” Stannis swallows, his brow lightly creased, as if impatient with himself.
Then he finally does it - takes Davos’ head between his hands, and kisses him, fingers in the curly hair, the beard stingy against the palms.
It is an inexperienced kiss, awkward, but hungry - of course the young Lord is hungry.
Davos kisses him back, and he takes that sudden act of intimacy as a pass for him to react: he presses his tongue against Stannis’ teeth, that finally give in and part, letting it through, and with his hands he cups his waist, thin and almost girlish, despite all that chainmail and clothes underneath.
He can feel Stannis’ heart beat like a drum in his mouth, and when the other man moves his lips down to his long neck, he can feel it beat in the throat. It makes Stannis gasp and almost take a step back: but the man holds him with his hands behind his back, and the distance between them closes, chest against chest.
Stannis takes his face again, resumes the kiss of before, and he doesn’t quite close his eyes as he’s supposed to do. Davos’ lips are fuller, and all the cuts on Stannis’ seem to reopen, but he doesn’t mind: his heart seems to sink down to his guts when the older man's hands slide to the belt that holds the chainmail down and tight in place.
Davos winches in pain for a moment, as his stumped fingers hit the metal, clumsy, and the Lord looks down, taking the left hand away, in his. They're still very close, with the man's groin pressing against Stannis',
“I've never,” the latter mutters, voice almost cracking with embarrassment - he doesn't continue, there is no need to. Davos caresses his pale, thin cheek with his free hand, and kisses him again, soft, as if giving him time to think.
The belt falls on the ground, Stannis quickly undoes the small hinges on his shoulders, and slips out of the chainmail - his neck is more exposed, the blouse is dark, and warm and large, sleeves down to his wrists and metal cuffs still around them.
Stannis takes a few steps back, now, and Davos follows immediately, as if they were one: without taking their eyes off each other, the young Lord sits on the bed, and then lays down on it, holding himself up only by his elbows. Davos is next to him, with a hand over his chest, heart thumping.
While the other man's bulge has grown to be quite noticeable, Stannis seems to be completely unbothered, physically, by the situation - he looks up at Davos, the redness has spread from his ears to his gaunt cheekbones, his lips quicker almost aching, and he shivers when the man lowers the hand down to his thighs.
He looks for a kiss again, stretching his neck out, and Davos leans in and kisses his throat instead, near the collarbone, while his hand runs up and down the inner thigh, slowly, making the other’s legs twitch as if out of impatience.
Stannis lets go of himself and completely lays down on the mattress, as Davos kisses down his neck: while the stumped hand is away from all labor, up, near the young Lord's head, his right hand begins to work away the laces of Stannis' breeches.
The younger man would stop him, would try to think of something to say, but now all he cares about are Davos' lips and teeth on his throat.
While Davos pulls the strings open, he only looks at Stannis, kissing his bony jaw, his lips, his neck again: the Lord grabs his shoulder, as Davos' hand slides in the trousers - it is then and only then, that a small part of Stannis wishes he hadn't let him go this far.
There is hair, but no cock.
Just a wet opening.
Stannis clenches his jaw, awkward, his face darkens with what Davos can identify as shame. The young Lord doesn't know where to look - whether to hold the slightly perplexed glance Davos had given him, or look away, move, stand up and leave, too ashamed, now, to even say a word.
The man can feel the nervous, aching heart beat also under there, under his palm.
Well, Davos thinks to himself, not the oddest thing I've ever encountered.
He fixes himself up a bit more, and his stumped fingers lightly caress Stannis' head, his short, sweaty black hair. He leans in, to kiss the young Lord again, gently. The hand in the breeches moves a bit more, loosening the laces more, and Stannis moans into the kiss when a finger enters him. Soon enough, it's two:
“Davos,” he gasps under his breath, his hand still on the man's shoulder, as the fingers slide in, deeper, eased in their way by how wet he is. Davos' lips move all over his jaw and neck, and the beard makes him itch: Stannis moves his skinny hands around, on the man's chest, on the back of his neck, on the nape, when he is leaned over to kiss his throat. Runs his fingers through his hair, moaning weakly, softly in his ear.
Davos is careful, gentle, warm.
As Stannis calls his name, the older man looks at him: the Lord glances up at him with those same eyes he had before they kissed for the first time, and mumbles a "please," - he slightly nods, and takes the fingers out.
Dries them on his trousers, and Stannis sits up, almost desperately fumbling at the hinges of his shin cuffs: they drop on the floor, soon enough follow the boots, allowing him to pull his pants off of himself.
Never thought he'd see an inexperienced, weak boy like that be so fast, and eager: Davos quickly undoes his own trousers, just enough to pull himself out. As the young Lord lays down again, the man looks at his naked legs: no fat, some muscles, and some bruises - hunger and sickness does that, at times. Again he grazes his fingers on his thighs, and the skin is pale and hot.
Then, Davos fixes himself atop of him: his tip presses against the opening, and Stannis covers his mouth, when he enters. A shiver runs through his entire body, he gasps, arching his back,
The man has one hand on Stannis' waist, under the blouse: the other, the mutilated one, again above the younger man's head, caressing his forehead, easing him, Davos asks if he's alright, and the other nods, lightly opening his legs more. He's warm, and tight, and sweet, his moans drowned away by kisses, his neck stretching, waist squirming, as Davos enters him fully.
The young Lord wraps his arms around Davos' shoulder, pulling him closer. Sweat trickles down his whole body, and the warm blouse doesn't help, the friction of groin against groin, Davos rocks his hips back and forth, each time it feels as if he's going deeper, he groans against Stannis' skin, he nibbles on his lips, on his ears, and neither of them seem to care whether it will leave a mark or not.
Davos helps Stannis’ leg up, gently, as he thrust in, each time ever so slightly rougher, as he approaches climax: he clings to the older man's blouse, his whole body is a heart, pulsating.
The man whispers something in his ear, breathing hotly against the skin, deep inside of him, Stannis moans quietly, breathlessly, he feels as if he's about to melt, like a burning candle.
“Does your wife, the Lady Selyse - does she know, My Lord?” Davos asks, still panting a bit, as he lays down at his side.
He's fixed himself back into his breeches, but Stannis still lays down half naked. The man had made sure to not let out inside, but on the thigh.
Stannis glances at him, red in the face, turning his head towards him: “Yes.”
“And have you laid with her?”
“Only to sleep,”
The other man returns the look, and takes the young Lord's hand in his. Their fingers interlace, and finally on Stannis' lips forms a smile, a thin, gentle one, the most beautiful sight in the world.
Davos helps him with the trousers, the shin cuffs, the boots, the chainmail, even though Stannis can do all by himself. He fixes his hair, and kisses him behind his neck, softly.
The sun begins to set, but there's still time. Davos kneels before his Lord, who in full uniform stands with his sword up in the sky. His wife, his brother, and the Maester watch, among other sworn knights. The man didn't belong to any House, so he came up with a name himself.
Lord Stannis Baratheon performs the ceremony, proclaiming the words and laying his sword on Davos' right shoulder, to then move it on the left one, at the end. His voice echoes in the silent courtyard:
“Rise, Ser Davos of House Seaworth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”