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Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, was once a smuggler. In Westeros, smugglers are criminals, and he had paid the price—losing four fingers for his crimes.
His nickname came from the very act that made him a knight. More than a decade ago, during the siege of Storm's End, he used his smuggling ship, Black Bess, to deliver a load of onions and pickled fish to the starving defenders.
With no other food left, they had been on the brink of cannibalism. His supplies sustained them until reinforcements from the north arrived, securing victory.
Though Davos was not as renowned for his bravery as Ser Barristan the Bold, no one could deny his courage.
Smuggling food through the blockade of the Highgarden fleet was a daring feat, made possible not just by his exceptional seamanship but also by his sheer nerve.
Cole had always wanted to meet the Onion Knight. After serving under Stannis for so long, he regretted never having the chance.
The two of them had similar backgrounds—both commoners who had become knights. A smuggler knight and a knight from the Wall.
"Ser Seaworth."
"Lord Julius."
They greeted each other politely, relieved that no highborn lords were around to sneer at them.
"I didn't expect His Majesty to send you here as a messenger." Cole gestured for Davos to sit on a nearby tree stump. "I've read the king's letter. Does he have any further orders?"
Davos nodded. "You fought a remarkable battle, my lord. His Majesty is pleased. He even praised you before all the lords, and you know how rare that is."
"What does His Majesty wish me to do next?"
"Is something happening at Dragonstone?" Cole asked, sensing the weight in Davos's tone.
Davos sighed. "Lord Monford Velaryon is pressing the king to march against Renly immediately. He's a rash man. At the war council, he went so far as to threaten His Majesty—saying that if no attack is ordered at once, he'll take his men and return to Driftmark rather than continue fighting for Stannis."
Internal and external troubles—Cole had little patience for the likes of Velaryon. Arrogant nobles were a constant headache, but charging into battle now was nothing short of suicide.
"That's troubling news. Did His Majesty agree to his demands?"
Davos shook his head. "No."
Cole exhaled, glancing toward Storm's End in the distance. "Renly is besieging the castle, and he won't retreat even if his food supplies are burned."
Davos studied him. "I've heard he sent riders to Highgarden for more provisions."
Cole caught the unspoken question in his eyes and let out a bitter chuckle. "Even if we know, what difference does it make? They won't fall for the same trick twice, Ser."
Still, he had his duty. "Tell His Majesty that I will lead my men to harass Renly's supply lines. But you know as well as I do that I don't have enough men to make a real impact."
Eight hundred men—many of them already lost. The battle had taken a heavy toll. Some had been thrown from their horses, others trampled, and many had fallen to arrows and spears. Though their victory had been swift, it had come at a steep cost—over three hundred dead and more than two hundred wounded. Every charge claimed more lives.
"I will relay your message faithfully," Davos promised.
Just then, the scent of roasted meat filled the air. Cole stood. "Come, Ser, have some horse meat. Two of our horses went down on the ride back, so I had their meat roasted."
Davos smirked. "The Dothraki believe eating horse meat makes them stronger." He watched Cole's expression, testing his reaction.
Cole chuckled. "Eat too much, and you'll end up with an upset stomach. You need fruit to balance it out. Have you ever been to the Dothraki lands, Ser?"
Davos shook his head. "No. My smuggling routes were always at sea or along the coasts. The Dothraki have a fearsome reputation across the Narrow Sea—every city prays they stay far away."
"People who don't farm always think like this."
"I heard that one of their horse-kings claims he'll conquer Westeros."
"It won't be easy. I doubt our king will let those savages cross the sea."
A servant arrived, carrying a plate of roasted horse meat. Inside a simple tent, Count Durran and several knights were already drinking and eating. As Cole stepped in, they all stood to greet him.
With his plate in hand, he sat down on a mat.
"Lord Cole, has the king given any new orders?" A knight, already cutting into his meat, asked between bites.
Horse meat had a strong, gamey smell and a tough texture, thicker than beef. It also carried a slight sourness. Before taking a bite, the men would first chew on grilled onions or mix the meat with blueberries to improve the flavor.
"His Majesty wants us to keep up our efforts. Once the repairs are done, we still have a great deal of work ahead."
A knight raised his cup. "Ser Seaworth, you're always welcome among us."
Davos lifted his drink in return, acknowledging the toast.
Before Cole had arrived, the men seemed to have been deep in conversation. Ser Geoffrey picked up where they left off.
"The man leading the chase against us was Crannogmen. I met him once at a tourney. They moved fast this time, but I imagine his face was quite a sight when he saw those flames."
"Ser, have you fought with them?" Count Durran asked eagerly.
"Our scouts had already mapped the route. We crossed the Wendwater using a wooden bridge, where we had placed wine barrels in advance. As soon as we crossed, we set the bridge alight." Cole smirked. "A few overzealous fools followed us, though. I cut one of them down myself."
"I wish I had been there with you." Durran sighed, his face full of regret, as though he had missed something remarkable. He turned to Cole.
"The war isn't over yet, Ser Durran." Cole took a bite of the horse meat—tough, chewy, and far from delicious.
"Then take me with you next time, Ser!" Durran said eagerly.
Cole shrugged. "Alright." If the young knight wanted to go, he wouldn't stop him. But if something happened to him, that wasn't Cole's problem. Swords had no eyes—on the battlefield, anything could happen.
"Ser, tell us—how did you know they'd come that way?" another knight asked curiously.
Cole wasn't about to reveal the secret of the White Dragon's vision, so he simply deflected.
"Scouts gathered the intelligence," he said dismissively.
"Information is crucial in war. The more we know, the better we can plan—and we can always act before the enemy does."
It was just talk, something to say over dinner. No one would take it seriously. At times like this, men liked to boast, drink, and jest—by morning, they would forget half of it.
Night fell before they knew it. The Onion Knight stayed in the camp overnight and departed early the next morning. He had to return to the coast first, then sail back to Storm's End.
As for Cole, he was already preparing for what came next.
They could slip through the Dornish Mountains and enter the Kingswood to harass supply lines and outlying troops. But inside the dense Kingswood, the White Dragon's vision wouldn't be as clear—unless a large force was on the move. And a large force wasn't something they could handle.
There was little Cole could do now. Stannis would have to fend for himself.
Melisandre… Melisandre… what are you waiting for? Kill Renly already.