Game of Thrones: Fanfic: Fire is burning

[m_findlow]

Title: Fire is burning
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Ser Davvos, Stannis, OC
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M
Length: 1,005 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for badly_knitted's prompt "Any, any, Treachery in the ranks" at fic_promptly
Summary: Stannis' war with the Boltons looks to be over before it's begun.

Davvos can hear the crackle of fire and the whinnying of horses even inside the tent. He hurriedly throws off the blankets and pulls on his boots, rueing the fact that after hours with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him awake he'd finally drifted off to sleep. It feels like it was only a moment ago, but perhaps it's been longer. Long enough that he's only just become aware of the disturbance outside.

A young soldier is waiting just outside his tent when he pulls back the flap and storms out, almost falling over the man, not expecting him to be there.

'What in the seven hells is going on out here?' Davvos demands.

'There's a group of men threatening mutiny, my Lord,' he replies, a slight waver in his voice, as if this is the worst thing that has befallen them.

'Only a group?' Davvos says. 'A mighty big group by the sounds of things. And they look to be doing more than just threatening wouldn't you say?' He doesn't even bother to correct the lad that he's no lord. He's barely a knight. Knighted by a man who would and should be king, but not for any brave deeds on his part. Loyal counsel is the only string to his bow, and even that he's beginning to question.

He doesn't bother to ask for directions to the melee, seeing the bright flames licking up towards the deep black sky, merely plodding in a hurried way towards the scene. The young soldier jogs after him, endeavouring to keep up. 'What do you know of it?' Davvos asks. 'Why wasn't the King awakened earlier?' He'd surely be awake now with all this commotion.

'I wasn't there,' the solider stutters. 'I only heard that...'

'That what?'

'The men don't believe we can win against the Bolton forces, my Lord. They think we'll die in the siege long before Winterfell capitulates. A few of them were saying we should turn back and make for Castle Black, demand that Ramsay make his war with us there.'

'Aye, pin ourselves between Wildling forces and Bolton forces. Which military minded tactician came up with that as a good plan?' He knew it had nothing to do with any sort of battle tactics, this was simply the desperation of men who knew they were going to die. Worse still was that they'd likely die before they even reached the field of battle. Nothing had gone their way since leaving Castle Black with a vow to bring the North back under proper rule, ridding it of the usurper Ramsay Bolton and all those who dared to challenge the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.

They'd tarried too long at the Wall, thinking that what they were doing was shoring up their forces, getting the remaining northern Houses in alliances with them. Instead they'd let the winter grow longer and deeper, and only a handful of the northern men that had pledged to fight alongside them still remained. Most had been far better equipped to make the journey south with their stout horses and wooden show shoes, but now even they had conceded that this was unlike any winter they'd seen. This was the work of the old gods, a sign that their endeavour was folly. They, unlike their southern counterparts, merely disappeared during the night, making a silent retreat back to their northern holdfasts.

Even Stannis' own men from Dragonstone were wavering in their conviction. No amount of spells or rites conducted by the Red Woman Melissandre had done anything to cause the snows to abate. There was hardly a dry timber to be found that could be lit for fire and warmth let alone for beseeching the Red God to grant them mercy. Apparently though, a canvas tent was more than capable of doing the job of providing good kindling.

Davvos paused a good twenty yards from the chaos, watching as men scurried in all directions, uncertain whether they were the loyalists in a state of panic, or the traitors, gathering what was left before higtailing it out of camp. The sight of it appalled him. They'd lost the battle even before it began.

'He turns to face the young soldier who is himself fixated by the flames, or perhaps just reveling in their heat - something that none of them can remember after so many weeks of endless bitter cold and snow. 'Do they not realise they're burning the only provisions we have?'

'They said if they couldn't be allowed to leave with their share, then they'd be making sure no one had them,' he reported. 'A few of the men tried to stop them, stand up to them, but they put them to the sword before they could even draw.'

'Madness. Absolute bloody madness,' Davvos mutters.

Beside him the young man falls to one knee and Davvos turns to see their King marching purposefully towards him, a grim look on his face that has become so permanent Davvos can no longer discern whether he is satisfied or displeased at any given moment.

Stannis sidled up silently beside him, watching the tents burn, along with what remains of their stores of food. The heat from the flames, though initially welcome, now causes beads of sweat to form on his brow and inside his beard.

'Well, that's us fucked now, isn't it?' Stannis mutters. 'This whole campaign was cursed from the beginning.'

'I'm not a big believer in curses, Your Grace,' Davvos replies, unsure how they might recover from this. Just how many men have deserted this night? And what of their horses and provisions. Would they even have enough to make it to Winterfell?

Stannis folds his arms behind his back and grimaces. 'Only one course of action left, Ser Davvos.'

'And what's that, Your Grace?' To turn back now was almost as sure a death as to keep going.

'Tomorrow we take the battle to these Bolton fuckers and put an end to it, one way or another.'