I will avenge his death, my lady. He has served me loyally, and he was a better man than most.

The man who had written those words to Marya was most likely dead himself, and with him, her Devan too. Her fifth son to die serving him. And a husband. She had lost a husband in his service too. She could not bear to think of his name even now. That man. No, that king.

But she did think of his wife and his little daughter. The sweet, shy princess Devan had often mentioned in his letters. The queen who had no fondness for Marya's husband. Or her own husband, according to some. Marya knew the truth of the former, and discounted the latter. No one knew the truth of a marriage, except the two people in it. That cold, haughty and disdaining queen was probably grieving for her husband too.

War had come to Cape Wrath, finally. Marya had lost husband and sons in a war that had consumed the realm for what seemed like an eternity, but the fighting had been like news from across the ocean before. No more. They were spared no more. Knights and sellswords and elephants roamed the Rainwood, fighting in the name of Aegon VI Targaryen. The Mad King's grandson, the one thought to have died at the end of the last war, his brain bashed against the wall. Marya did not trouble herself with the question whether this man, this king, was a pretender. Whether he was truly who he claimed to be. The dead would still be dead, whether he was or wasn't. The dead would still be dead, no matter who won the war, no matter who ended up sitting on that blasted throne, she thought. The widows, the orphans, and all the lost and the maimed, nothing would change for them.

Soon there would be news of another army. The Lannisters, was her first thought. Fighting for that boy king sitting on the Iron Throne. Who else? But the name shouted from the battlefield was not of that boy king, but of a different king. That king. That man, whose name Marya at times had wished she had never known. That man, who had given them so much, and taken just as much, if not more.

"Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!"

But how could that be? He was dead, she had heard, slayed in a foolish and futile attempt to take Winterfell. Perhaps these were men fighting to put his heir on the throne. His daughter.

Then it should be her name they're shouting. Shireen. Shireen Baratheon. Not his. Not if he is dead.

If he is alive … then … then … perhaps …

She dared not let hope bloomed in her heart. She dared not whisper her son's name, even in her sleep. But hope took root anyway.

My Devan could be alive. If that man is truly still living. Devan is always by his side.

To see her son again. To see Devan again, to run her fingers slowly down his face. To hold him in her embrace, and to never let go. He looks so much like Dale now. As Dale had looked, at that age, Davos had written in his last letter to her, before they sailed to the Wall. The letter written by his own hand. The one letter in her possession written by her husband's own hand. Her husband had learned how to read and write after all. Marya had memorized every stroke of every alphabet in that letter, every note of hesitation where his quill had stalled. She had obsessed over each word in that letter. Why had he chosen this word instead of another? Had she missed anything, misunderstood something, not recognized an essential truth in that letter?

She wanted more. No, she needed more. Her husband's last words to her, and they were not enough for Marya. She prayed to the gods to forgive her. How could she be so ungrateful? And yet she could not deny her own truth. She needed more, after all the years and the sons and the dead sons. And the love. After all the love they had shared. The love for their sons. The love for each other.

Will you always choose your loyalty to him over everything?

This was the question she had never asked her husband. Not because she was afraid of the answer – she knew it already – but because she did not want him to be sad. Did not want him to spend his days wracked with guilt and doubt. And yet, she could not help wondering … if she had asked him that question, had demanded him to make a true accounting of himself at some point in their marriage, perhaps Steff and Stanny would still have their brothers. And their father.

Foolishness, she thought. All the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys'. The world was not made for do-overs, there were no second chances in life. Blackwater Bay would not miraculously un-explode and Dale, Allard, Maric and Matthos would not suddenly come back to life. Davos' head and hands would not miraculously remove themselves from the walls of White Harbor and reattach to his body. Those things were not possible.

She had no tears left, and there were Steff and Stanny to consider, so she did not weep.

She did weep, long and hard, when the impossible did happen. Davos, in the flesh. Her husband, alive, slowly walking down the path to their home, the leader of that victorious battle against that Targaryen king and his knights and his sellswords and his elephants. The father of her sons, looking nervous and hesitating slightly when he caught sight of Steff and Stanny, before the boys ran as fast as they could towards him, burying him with their hugs and their questions and their tears and their laughter.

"Devan is alive," was the first thing he had told them. "He sends his love."

"Why didn't he come home with you?" Steff asked.

Marya did not care. She did not care why, as long as he was alive. Her Devan, alive.

"King Stannis is back at the Wall. Devan is doing his duty as squire," Davos replied, his hand running through Steff's hair.

"So the war is not over?" Stanny's joy had turned to agitation. "Will you have to go back to the Wall too? Will you and Devan have to fight again?"

"Your father needs his rest. Tomorrow, for all your questions," Marya interrupted.

"I have missed you more than I can tell you," Davos said softly, holding both boys tightly in his embrace.

"We have missed you too, Father," Stanny replied solemnly. "We have been good, not giving Mother any trouble, and helping her, like we promised you."

"I'm really glad you're not dead," Steff blurted out, and then burst into tears. Marya took him in her arms.

The only man she had loved, the only man she had ever touched, in her bed again that night.

"I wrote you a letter, when I was at White Harbor. And the boys too. When I thought … when I thought ..."

"When you thought you were going to die," Marya finished the sentence for him. "We never got those letters." She ran her fingers slowly down his cheek. He was real. He was truly here, not a dream, not an imagination, not a memory. He was flesh and blood, living, breathing, thinking. And worrying. His forehead was creased, and his eyes were infinitely sadder than she remembered.

"Lord Manderly must have decided not to send the letters, when he decided to spare my life." Davos had told her all, about Wyman Manderly and his plan, about the youngest Stark boy Davos had brought back from Skagos, about how Stannis Baratheon had defeated the Boltons.

She kissed both his cheeks, the feel of them on her lips finally convincing her that she was not dreaming. "What did you write?" She whispered to his ear.

"I am so sorry, Marya," his voice was close to breaking.

"For what?" She took his hand, the one Stannis had brought down his cleaver to. "You came back to me. To us."

"That's what I wrote, in that letter. I asked for your forgiveness. For … everything. I was a better smuggler than a knight, a better knight than a king's Hand, a better king's Hand than a husband."

Marya did not hesitate. "There is nothing to forgive. If you are a better king's Hand than a husband, then Stannis Baratheon is the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"I am so sorry. For our sons. For Dale, Allard, Maric and Matthos." This time his voice did break, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Marya wiped them away with the sleeve of her nightdress.

"That was not your doing," she replied.

"Who do you blame, if not me? Their father. A father is supposed to protect his children, but I led them to their death, the gods forgive me."

"Stannis led them to their death, and almost led you to yours. It was his doing," Marya replied, all the sorrow and anger and bitterness she had worked so hard to hide for so long spilling out all at once.

"Marya ..."

She asked the question she already knew the answer to. "You're going back to the Wall. To him. To fight his endless war."

Davos' hand grasped hers. She let him. "It's not just about the throne now. The real enemy is beyond the Wall. It is his duty as the rightful king to fight it."

"And yours to fight alongside him?"

"When all this is over, when Stannis sits the Iron Throne and has no more need of onion knights, we will go, take Steff and Stanny to see all the wonders of the world. And have nothing more to do with kings and wars and thrones."

"He will always have need of you."

"Everything I am I owe to him."

"Haven't you given him enough in return? Haven't we given him enough? Our sons. Our boys. My husband." She turned her face away from her husband. Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Davos' hand was stroking her fingers. "Your father was right after all, I can only bring sorrow and unhappiness to your life. Forgive me, Marya."

She turned to look at her husband. "My father didn't know what he was talking about." She kissed him, not on the cheeks this time. "You have brought me great joy and happiness, Davos Shorthand."

He smiled, an all-too-brief smile that transformed swiftly into a frown. "I held the red priestess responsible for everything. Because I did not want to contemplate Stannis' own culpability."

His words bewildered her. "I don't -"

"It is not Stannis you truly blame. Or at least, not only him."

Marya wept. And wept. There seemed to be no end to her tears. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

He kissed her on her brow. "There is nothing to forgive."

"I love you," Marya said.

"And I love you," Davos replied.

"Always."

"Always."