When Davos Seaworth peeked outside his tent, barely upright, all he saw was torrents of rain.
The northern army had moved swiftly from Winterfell, but when they were mere hours away from Barrowton, clouds finally chose to implode. Hail and cold water hit snowy beds and shattered into shards. Some of it sliced through the tents Jon Snow had instructed to erect. They had laid camp against wee hills as protection against the raging wind, a trick that worked until the winds changed direction.
Hours turned to days as Barrowton inched closer and closer, yet never truly in sight. On days before the storm, they covered five-and-ten miles in a day. Now, with slippery surfaces and thundering hail, even covering a mile felt accomplishment enough. What would have happened if we had marched a week later.
Davos was thankful his smuggling days gave him experience enough to withstand storms, although he had seen few like this one. He was reminded of the snows he faced with King Stannis Baratheon in their arduous journey south of the Wall. This time, when he looked around, at least the men in his company gave him greater comfort. Northmen know how to embrace these storms.
The younger lads were with running noses and aches, desperate to sit behind walled castles, but not the others. The Cerwyns and Glovers made quick headway and Jon Snow, having spent half his life on the edge of the world, looked at complete ease with the weather. Davos supposed Wyman Manderly would have preferred staying in bed with hot onion soup but he was wrong. The fat man never looked more alive.
Morale was uncharacteristically celebratory in the war council. “If garrons are struggling in this weather, I wonder how many ships the Targaryen bitch has lost!” boomed Manderly’s voice, to those of assent. “If the Greyjoys are good for something it’s their skill on the sea,” Davos replied, still cautiously sullen. “I expect them to know when to set sail and which waters to ride.”
It appeared the northern lords did not share his pessimism. When the conversation soon turned to strategy, Lord Glover confidently suggested setting base in the mountains north of Barrowton rather than the castles. “If there’s anything we know it’s our lands,” he said. “The Dothraki have never known snowy terrain. If the weather keeps up, Daenerys and her army will not be able to see five feet ahead of them. Why waste that advantage by holding ourselves up in towers?”
“So that we cannot be blind ourselves.” Davos had to play reason. Northmen were good at heart and Davos got along with them better than Stannis Baratheon’s men, but their chivalry could often be mistaken for foolhardy. “Meeting the Dothraki in open field will fuck us in the arse harder than poking Balerion the Dread in the eye.”
Jon agreed. “Castle Goldgrass and Barrow Hall both overlook the sea, and it’s likely their forces will anchor somewhere close,” he said. “No siege against us will work in this weather. They will be forced to attack walls.”
The council ended, but even after discussions and deliberations, Jon’s mind seemed no clearer. He wrote his letter to Sansa in dazed apathy, mind elsewhere. Davos decided to give him a prod: he cleared his throat, signaling his presence in the camp and hinting at need for conversation, but over thundering rain, it was barely audible. Instead, he broke into speech. “Something the matter?”
Jon turned his eyes from the parchment to him. His countenance lightened slightly, although the words were weighted. “Daenerys Targaryen has thousands of Dothraki on her side. She is allies with Dorne and Highgarden. I still believe we can take them in battle, but what if this is all in vain?”
“Avenging your dead sister is never in vain.”
“It is not, but what if Arya did not die at Pyke? I waged war because as king, it was what I had to do… but it was also what I wanted. But if this is all a ruse, the Night King will yet be marching from the Wall, and we’ll be squabbling amongst ourselves, losing men who should instead be fighting the army of the dead.”
Jon’s words reflected his own considerations over past few nights. The conclusion he had reached was the one he told Jon. “If they lied about your sister’s death, that lie would have made them uncertain allies. War is our decision. Sticking by it seems the wiser choice.”
Jon nodded in the assertive. “Perhaps.”
*
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