The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.

I've had a few requests to add onto the story of Ser Davos Seaworth highlighted in my previous story A Future We Would Make Ourselves. After watching the new episode last night and hearing the epic 'Jon Snow' bioptic speech, I had to begin writing this story.

I get chills every time Liam Cunningham delivers one of his epic arguments. Every damn time.

If there's someone I want as the right-hand man in my life, it would be Ser Davos. Because who wouldn't want that guy in your corner?

XxX

Chapter 1

Winterfell.

The sight of the expansive grey castle on the horizon never failed to awe him a little. How such a massive collection of buildings and people manage to survive the merciless snow and winds to not just live but thrive in such a harsh environment was equally inspiring.

Now after a lifetime of travel on the sea and in the Stormlands, the grey stone of Winterfell was slowly seeping into his bones. The castle was dangerously close to being considered home. The younger Davos, equal parts cocky and cautious didn't relish the idea of keeping his boots by the side of one door for all his life. There was money to be made on the waves, his boat was more of a proper home than the crumbling dwelling his wife and son had inhabited in Flea Bottom.

The world was different now. The War of the Five Kings, the destruction of Kings Landing and the War Against the Long Night had stripped Westeros of nearly a third of its people. Winter had come, and the land was barren and could not sustain crops.

His wife Mayra and his son Matthos were dead. The little rooms in Flea Bottom where his family had lived and loved was long gone, destroyed when Cersei Lannister tried to burn Kings Landing to the ground in a fit of madness. Even his beloved boats were lost during the war of the Five Kings. There were few possessions left to Ser Davos now, which had never bothered him much until he'd come into the service of the King of Winterfell.

Things could be replaced. But loved ones couldn't. They were far beyond his reach now.

Everything he'd built with his hands had died with his family. Ser Davos was a man who possessed little more than the brains in his head, a proper title, and what remained of his fingers in a bag around his neck. Hardly the auspicious life he'd dreamed of when he was awarded his title.

How things had changed, indeed.

King Jon rode beside him, the two of them and their host of guards were heading home to the Stark stronghold. There had been a bit of business to attend to between House Glover and the Free Folk, most of it squabbling over the right to hunt in a particularly questionable area of land near the borders of the Dreadfort. In the end both parties were appeased by the king's decision, but not before the Glover vassals spent the better part of three days trying to plead their case. The free folk spent the three days drinking during each session and looking rather bored. Afterward, the king had been invited to partake of the hospitality of the free folk's new home at Dreadfort. The visit, which was pleasant enough, gave the king an opportunity to survey the site, speak to the residents, and take note to send a stonemason to assist with some of the external repairs again.

The visit itself had been vaguely amusing, watching the formidable Brianne of Tarth, the new Lady Giantsbane, pound some poor sod into the ground in a sparring match while four months gone with child. Ser Davos wouldn't have agreed with the lady sparring in the tiltyard, but was reminded that Arya Stark had kept the Night King's army away from the Three Eyed Raven well enough while she was carrying her own babe. Tormund had watched his wife win the match with a wide smile of lust stamped on his features. With the match concluded, the red-haired wildling approached his wife, smoothed her growing belly with his hand, and alluded to the same beating he'd taken while he was siring their child.

The lady, bless her, didn't cuff her husband across the face as expected. Instead, she leaned in and said quite clearly, "Later," before turning heel and returning to the keep for dinner.

"I'm a lucky man," Tormund had said when Ser Davos caught up with him. "She prattles on about us being too hard on the black-cloaked healer the Crow King sent, but she shows no mercy on me beneath our furs. She'll be the mother of a small army by summer."

That evening's dinner had been a riotous occasion, with games, drink, and merriment making up for the plain soup served by their hosts. The winter was proving to be a difficult one, but as long as the free folk continued to hunt and trade, there would be enough staples to feed the bellies of everyone who inhabited Dreadfort.

There were no high tables at Dreadfort. During a game of shield jumping and tug of war over an open flame, everyone milled about drinking and eating, their laughter filling the spaces which had once rotted with dirty deeds. Lord Giantsbane and his lady wife stood side by side together, his booming voice echoing through the hall. Lady Brianne was more sedate, but she smiled occasionally, and didn't seem to mind when her husband held her close to his side, his arm wrapping around the small of her back and caressing the expanse of her strong hip. The fact that she wasn't putting up too much of a fuss was truly a sight to behold.

But no matter how pleasant the visit, or how much King Jon enjoyed the company of Tormund Giantsbane and his lively stories, the Targaryen lord missed his lady wife. Sansa Stark, the red-haired Queen of the North was heavy with her second child, which made the king hesitant to leave her side for any length of time. Jaehaerys Targaryen missed the birth of his son, Robb Stark. The king was determined not to miss the arrival of his second child. From the warm looks and doting demeanor between the king and his queen, their growing family and their marriage was proving to be a blessing rather than a burden.

In the year following the victory against the Night King, it was clear to everyone that King in the North loved his beautiful wife with a fierce passion. The same was true of the red-haired Lady of Winterfell. She wore her love for her husband on her face and in her eyes wherever she went. The certainty of that love was palpable to the point where the stones of the keep seemed warmer under their feet.

From the gleam in his grace's eye, Ser Davos could see the king was anxious to return home. Spurring his horse into a gallop, King Jon burst forward of his retainers. Ser Davos smiled faintly and rallied his own horse. He may not have a willing woman waiting for him, but Ser Davos had a hot meal, a hotter bath, and roaring fire to look forward to when they arrived.

As they passed the gate and dismounted in the courtyard, there were greetings from the men and women gathering and passing through the open space. Ser Davos winced as he dismounted, feeling his leg protest from the long ride from Dreadfort in the bitter cold. The injury he'd acquired during the final Battle Against the Long Night still caused the Onion Knight a considerable amount of discomfort. It had been a nuisance feeling the bevy of aches and pains pop up more often and for long periods of time.

Growing old was a bitch.

Handing off the horse's reins to the stable boy, Ser Davos kept in step behind his king as the doors of Winterfell opened. The welcoming heat of the keep was a relief to Ser Davos, but he could see the King in the North seemed focused on someone else walking down the hall. More like two and a half someones.

Robb Stark was toddling down the corridor, his little leather booted feet carrying him forward in a strong show of strength. Behind him following at a close distance was the Lady of Winterfell, her beautiful face shining with a mother's pride. She took no pains to hide her condition, the physical evidence of her impending birth was apparent from the cut of her dress and the floor length half robe she wore to ward of the cold.

King Jon had eyes for no one but his wife and son, when he sprang forward to catch the little boy up in his arms and over his head, the happy squeals were soon squashed when Robb was brought down for a firm hug and a pecking kiss on the brow. The king then greeted his wife with a more intimate exchange. His free arm wrapped around her as he leaned in to kiss her deeply and whisper a few well timed words in her ear. The lady didn't blush, but she did give her husband a potent smile.

Yes, the King and Queen of the North were very much the picture of a loving couple.

Ser Davos gave his own greeting to the queen, a quick nod with his head before excusing himself from the reunited family. His feet found the way to the kitchens, where a small group of servants were preparing the evening meal.

In the center of the kitchen, right in the thick of things, was the Stewardess of Winterfell.

Medda.

Ser Davos couldn't help but watch her for a few moments, her capable hands inspecting dishes and lending a hand when needed. Her face was flush from the heat from the stoves and the activity in the room. Her dark hair was tied up at the back of her neck, a few loose tendrils emerged from the neat arrangement. Her eyes were dark brown, the same color as the rich spices he'd smuggled out of Braavos once. Pale skin, pleasing figure. It made his mind go blank sometimes just looking at her.

Such a northern beauty. It was a shame he rarely saw her smile. She had a darling smile. The first time he'd seen it, he'd been on the cusp of life and death after the Battle Against the Long Night. She smiled at him faintly when they first met, when he'd arrived back at Winterfell from the last war. Her smiles were so infrequent, the only other time he'd seen her lips perk up in pure amusement was when little Robb Stark had been seen walking side by side with his father's direwolf in the great hall a few weeks ago.

Medda was calm. She was kind. She was unfailingly capable. But she didn't seem given to great heights of emotion. It was her Northern upbringing, he supposed. Folk north of the neck were bound have a reserved demeanor. It was a reflection of their harsh environment.

In the year he'd come to know her, their paths crossed frequently. Most of the daily running and organization of the keep was under the hand of Lady Sansa and by default the Stewardess of Winterfell, but there were plenty of times they'd worked together to see to grain shipments from one keep to another, or in coordinating the visits of under vassals or southern lords wishing to parlay with the King and Queen in the North.

Medda was easy to work with, and her experience and gentle handling of tricky situations made her a valuable helpmate. Ser Davos wished she'd let her guard down a bit so he could get to know her better. Hers would be a tough exterior to break through. But if that day ever came, he was sure there was a warm and loving woman waiting inside.

And if he'd been ten years younger, he would have wanted to be the one to break down those walls. Now in the autumn of his life, Ser Davos would be content if she would just take a tankard of ale and some supper with him every once in a while.

Medda's astute eyes fixed on him, bringing Ser Davos out of his appreciative gaze.

"Good evening, Mistress Medda," Ser Davos greeted cheerily.

Medda quirked one dark eyebrow. They'd had this conversation before. No matter how adamant she'd been about the lack of a title, Ser Davos had kept up the courtesy. The former steward would have been granted the use of a courtesy title of master, so why shouldn't the stewardess take the title of mistress?

"Ser Davos," Medda replied steadily. "Dinner will be sent up to your rooms shortly."

Davos shook his head. "Ahh. Thank you. I'm off to the bathhouse."

The dark haired woman must have seen how he was walking, as she pulled away from the kitchen servants to survey the smuggler closely.

"Your leg is acting up again," she surmised apprising his gait. "Is your arm hurting as well? I can send someone to fetch the maester.". Her voice was pinched and her eyes were open in concern. From the look on her face and the sudden action, it was a close to fussing as she was likely to be over anyone.

"No. No maester, please." Ser Davos shook his head. "Nothing a bath, a hot dinner, and a warm fire won't cure. I've been thinking of them these long miles back from the Dreadfort."

The frown on her face was clear. "You need a maester," she said shortly.

"I'm fine without the maester. I'd prefer not to have him poking and prodding me when dinner is about to be served. Bad for the digestion."

"If that's what you prefer, ser." The tone of her voice was obvious she disagreed with his remedy. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Have dinner with me," The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them. The abrupt question made both of them look around at the servants working at their tasks. No doubt there would be tittle tattle around the keep by the end of the night.

"What I mean to say, mistress, is will you take dinner with me? It's been a hard ride today, and there's news of Dreadfort I'd like to share with you."

Lies. He asked her to have dinner with him because eating alone in his room suddenly seemed unpalatable. Watching the heartfelt reunion between the king and his family made him long for her company. Even if it was just dinner. Even if it didn't amount to much. After a week surrounded by men and free folk, spending an hour with the likes of Medda the Stewardess would be a welcome end to the day.

The stewardess didn't answer at first. Her keen eyes were searching his face for something only she could see. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but from the look in her eyes, he knew she wouldn't be prone to share her thoughts in front of the servants.

"If I take supper with you, it will be later. I must see to my lady first."

"Of course."

"An hour, Ser Davos. We'll have supper in the hall. I can't stay too long."

Equal part public place with some measure of privacy. He wasn't expecting her to capitulate so readily. Ser Davos nodded and excused himself from the kitchens, the twittering voices of the servant girls in the shadowy corners following him through the corridor and out to the bathhouse. His movements, while stiff were determined.

If he had turned around, Ser Davos would have seen a look of interest flicker in the eyes of the stewardess. Something warm passing through her face before it was diminished by a painful memory. If he had seen it, no doubt Ser Davos would have forgone the bath to linger by her side for a while, and the dark haired woman would have lost her nerve to sup with him. It was to his advantage that he carried on with his tasks, readying himself for the evening meal. Mentally prepping himself for a dinner both of them would mark as the beginning of a turn of events neither would have ever expected.

XxX

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