The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

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

I spent most of October and November working on a non-fiction book project, and decided to update this fic with a new chapter in time for Christmas. It's not a fluffy happy chapter, you've been warned. More soon!

XxX

Chapter 3

Winter town had grown. The temporary village just outside the walls of Winterfell looked a little rough, but proved to be perfectly serviceable to the growing collection of smallfolk seeking shelter near the keep. There had been a sizeable influx of people from the little settlements along the White Knife river desperately seeking shelter. There hadn't been enough grain to go around, and not enough coin among them to keep going for the whole of the winter.

It had fallen to the Stewardess of Winterfell to see the newcomers were properly housed, fed, and provided tasks to see them through the long cold years ahead. New shelters needed to be built, Medda thought, her mind methodically calculating the number of people in contrast to the available space. The structures had to be well built, constructed quickly, and capable of ensuring families and single people alike were comfortable. They would need more fuel for the fires as well. Communal living brought its own share of difficulties, especially with drainage and disposal of waste. No need to invite sickness into a place where people had already lost so much.

She greeted faces young and old, an uncommon number of women passed by, their hands chapped in the cold wind, grasping the children next to them, pressing their lean little bodies close by. The turmoil of the past few years had resulted in little more to expect than death, and those who survived appeared as shadows of their former selves. The war had made them old before their time with haggard expressions, greying hair, sad eyes, and empty bellies.

In the grey and white of winter, it wasn't hard to imagine that death was easier to accept than continuing to survive. An end to the cold and dark seemed almost like a mercy.

But survive she did, even if she hadn't really wanted to.

Medda turned the corner to walk inspect a new row of housing when she saw a crowd of gathering by the collection of refugees. Through the mass of unwashed clothing, anxious eyes, and hollow faces, a flair of red hair broke through the gloom. A strong male voice greeted those nearby, the rough northern tones mixing with another more feminine pitch.

King Jon and Queen Sansa.

They were greeting the new collection of White Knife refugees, their warm words seemed to settle the anxious faces in the crowd. A flurry of questions skirted through the crowd, many of them overwrought and overwhelmed with a mixture of worry and excitement. This was the man who had led the army which saved Westeros from the Night King. This was the good lady of Winterfell, who was even more beautiful than the traveling minstrels had sung about. The king stood next to his queen, a sign of unity and strength which hadn't been seen among northern royalty since the days of King Torren. The growing crowd was worrisome. Where were their sworn swords?

"You all are welcome to stay for the remainder of the winter," the king reassured. "The Starks have a saying, 'the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.' There is food and work for everyone. You are safe here in Winterfell with us."

A gaunt woman holding a weak looking child spoke desperately with the queen. "He won't eat, m'lady." The words spilled out of her lips in a rush. "He hasn't been able to keep anything down for two days."

Queen Sansa looked pensive, brushing the little boy's brow with her own hand and reading the distraught woman's face as one would read a page in a book. "I'll send the maester to you this evening. He'll see what he can do."

Tears peeked from the woman's eyes. "Thank you, m'lady. Thank you."

Just off to the side of the crowd was another set of watchful eyes, scanning the faces and intent of those present with an intent expression. The relaxed way he took in the scene set him apart from most of the sworn shields of Winterfell, but beneath that almost casual stance, Ser Davos Seaworth seemed to reading the situation the way a child absorbed an intense book.

The Hand of the King carefully inserted himself into the crowd with precision, greeting those who had assembled with a kind yet directional tone. "Good people, you're most welcome here. I know the stewardess and her maids have found places for you all, and supper is to be served soon. Our queen is in need of rest and dinner herself. Let's allow his grace to see her safely back to the keep. He'll hear all of your concerns on the morrow."

Ser Davos received an appreciative nod from the king, who after giving his last regards to those assembled, draped his arm around the queen's back and began escorting her slowly back to the gates of the keep. Their visit to the town would go a long way to allying the fears of the people residing just outside the tall walls of the castle, however, given Queen Sansa's advanced pregnancy, she wasn't wise for her to stray too far from the warm halls of Winterfell. A tad regretfully, the crowd shuffled away toward the communal kitchens or their dwellings to take their own meals.

As two of her servants broke through the retreating people walking by, Medda was updated on the amount of bread and soup the town needed for the folk that evening. Still Ser Davos made no move to leave. He seemed to be waiting for her to finish her business before strolling to her side.

"Good day, mistress." The rough muddle of the knight's accent was kindly, as it often was when they spoke. He was a steady one, this Hand of the King. A man who seemed to be cut from better cloth than most of the men who had passed through her life since the War of the Five Kings began.

She liked his voice, actually. His wit and words were never far off their mark, and he seemed to be quick with a joke to put most people at ease. Humor was a tool he used well, and he knew better than to use it on her.

"Ser Davos," Medda replied in kind. She liked how he was respectful, his hands clasped behind his back and keeping a propriety distance from her. Without prompting, he fell into step beside her, glancing around at the new improvements made to the structures in the area.

"The builders made good time, I see." The older man began. "You have enough space for everyone?"

"For them and a few more," Medda stated simply. "They didn't bring much with them. We'll need more clothing and shoes next, and a healer for the ones who are already ill. The maester is busy and I don't want to overtax him."

"He's the maester," Davos pointed out. "Wolken seems to be a steady sort. I'm sure he'll be able to help the folk here when he's not busy."

"Maester Wolken's duty is to the lord and lady of Winterfell, and the queen is due to deliver soon. I have a few women in mind who can nurse the sick in his stead. Though, if he can be spared at some point, it would be helpful."

The way he looked at her, the warm glow of appreciation and understanding in his eyes pricked at the soft flesh beneath her skin. But her heart was still dead inside. It had been for years. It was out here in the vast open cold air that she was reminded that while the muscle in her chest kept her alive, the soft parts of her were as dead as the frozen ground beneath her feet.

Dead as her two boys, both of them so young. Eyes unseeing when she found them lying bloodied in the mud near her home. Neither had lived to see ten name days.

They had died. She had lived. Surviving with guilt and grief haunting her every step.

Now there was a man with all too keen eyes and a warm expression nearby who seemed intent on drawing her out when she was focused on her work. It had been so effortless to fall into easy rapport with him. The more time she spent with the older man, the more she liked him. There was something appealing about the graying knight, his sensible but compassionate nature, who was bold in the way he spoke but savvy in a way she could appreciate. The way he told stories and asked questions made her reveal more about herself at their shared dinner than she'd realized. Medda didn't have any intention on speaking with him alone so informally again. She needed safety and security her two hands and quick mind could offer.

She'd never trust another man with her heart or her person again. That emotion had died long ago. Her husband managed that.

Service to the queen and to the people of Winterfell kept her busy. Too busy to hear the sounds of swords which haunted her unconscious moments. Exhaustion was an escape from the nightmares. Dark episodes where she screamed and cried out in her sleep. It was easier to talk about the running of Winterfell in the failing light of day, keeping their mutual roles between them.

"Would you like to see the kitchens, my lord?" Medda offered, turning a corner to another row of houses. Even with a bad leg, the Onion Knight was keeping up with her brisk pace.

"Aye, I would," The man at her side agreed. "Can't say I have any experience supervising the relief efforts in a winter town such as this one."

His statement was a comment and a compliment, and it floored her. Even when she offered him nothing, there was sincerity and kindness in his voice. Medda nodded, keeping her head partway down to the ground and walked the familiar route through the well-organized group of dwellings to a larger well-lit structure nearby. Large simmering cauldrons of soup and overflowing baskets of bread were lined up in neat rows by a soup line. As the adults ate, smaller cauldrons were being ladled full of steaming soup, ready for delivery to the bed bound and infirm.

Ser Davos said little during the tour, leaving Medda to keep mental tally of the supplies being used and the ones needed for the next meal. Striding purposefully toward the communal kitchen, she could hear Ser Davos take a deep appreciative breath of the fragrant air. The warmth of the kitchen was a welcome contrast to the cold outside, and the aroma of baking bread and potato soup filled the space. Seeing everything to her liking, she made her final rounds of the town, taking stock of what tasks needed to be tackled on the morrow.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what's needed to keep a town going in the winter," Ser Davos supplied hastily as they approached the last group of wooden homes near the keep. "Can I provide some service for you, mistress? Anything you need before I send the rest of the men out to cut more wood?"

Another courtesy. One she didn't know if she deserved. It was either the courtesy or the sudden wind which tempted dampness in her eyes. Medda nearly responded with a polite 'no, thank you,' when a loud female voice broke behind her.

"Medda fucking Forrester. You're still alive?"

It wasn't the greeting of a friend, or even the overly familiar voice of someone from Deepwood Motte. But it was a voice she knew all the same, and an unwanted reminder of past sorrow that had burned deeply into her soul.

Medda felt herself go utterly still. She saw the slight tick of confusion pass through Ser Davos' blue eyes. He had worn her down once, this knight made Hand of the King. Now confronted with a vision from her past, the coldness in Medda's heart broke free of its hold, and flooded the blood in her veins. Just a few minutes ago she'd felt almost warm in the presence of the man beside her. Now, Medda felt nothing. Would feel nothing. She would never be made to feel anything again.

Her long-deceased father, so observant of northern lordly protocol, hadn't schooled her in the way of greeting her dead husband's lover in the open right under the nose of the king's Hand. The only weapons she had at hand were her civility and honor as the Stewardess of Winterfell.

"Sybell," Medda greeted calmly, she felt more dead and alive in the growing dark around her. "Have you just arrived?"

"Don't act like you care. Hoped I'd see your mangled corpse in that rotted waste of a village of yours. But the rumors are true, I guess. I just didn't want to believe them." Sybell Bole, her once shiny brown hair and buxom appearance was gone, as were a few of her once pleasingly clean teeth. The upheaval of the war had transformed her from a fetching daughter of a lower house to a beggar in a matter of years, and the disparity between them couldn't be more apparent.

There had always been disparity between them, Medda's father was a steward, Sybell's father was a lesser vassal of a lesser house. Medda's marriage had been arranged, and never happy. Her husband Hamma, while a fearsome and respected warrior in his own right, had been content to warm another woman's bed for years before his march south with King Robb's army.

No amount of family pressure had managed to keep the woman in check. Sybell had publicly shamed her more than once, happy to cackle her success of snaring such a vigorous and handsome man into her bed for her own purposes. Sybell's own cockhold of a husband had turned a blind eye to his wife's infidelity and had the good sense to die of old age two decades early.

Still, the woman had words, and words were weapons in the hands of someone with a reputation for sharp pettiness and vicious gossip.

Medda had to count to five in her head before speaking. Thankfully, the cold rushed through her brain and body, acting like armor against the verbal arrows directed her way. There was an angry look on the face of her companion, and whatever he was about to say was cut off by the words which sprang from her own mouth.

"You're welcome to take shelter in the winter town. There are communal kitchens right down there if you're hungry. I'll have a maid find you a place to sleep." The words were not exactly kind, but they were stalwart in their generosity. Sybell didn't seem to keep any of them in mind as she approached the stewardess in the haze of dusk falling around them.

"I heard the Ironborn raped your whole village bloody," Sybell spat, the flecks of spit freezing in the cold air. "Such a shame, really. Terrible shame. Heard no one got out unscathed."

The implication was obvious. But Medda had a weapon of her own.

"The north remembers," Medda said coolly. "The war is over. Are you planning to stay through the winter or perhaps you'd like to journey onward to Blackbird Hall."

"You're fucking mental if you think I'd go back to Blackbird Hall," Sybell pulled a stringy strand of hair from her chapped lips. "What would I do there? All my family's dead."

"There's a new lord," Medda countered, using logic. Getting Sybell back to her ancestral home would leave more reserves for the others who needed far greater help. "I've heard Lord Ashton is a good man."

"And a married one. That's not helpful."

"That never stopped you before." The words spilled out before Medda could stop them. The miscalculation in speech cost her the high ground. "Hamma's dead. Your anger won't bring him back."

"He never wanted you," Sybell spat, the anger on her face shining brightly in her expression. "He never cared for you. Hamma was mine before you were ever wed. If it wasn't for his fucking cunt father he would have never married you." Sybell swiveled her head and glared daringly at Ser Davos. "She's as cold as a fish, I've been told. Can't keep a man's staff upright in her hands or her hole."

Once upon a time, Medda's face would have burned red from embarrassment. She would have slunk away from Sybell's harsh words with nary a mortified gasp, retreating to the safety of her own hearth. But things were different now. Medda had stopped crying the day she buried her boys in the ground.

Whatever Medda had planned to say next was cut off by the man at her side. "That's enough!" There was hot anger in Ser Davos' voice as he rounded on the woman in their midst. "Take yourself off. Go cool off in the snow - there's an abundance of it. And come back when you're ready to respect the stewardess of this keep."

"And you are you besides some used up soldier from the south?" Sybell shot back. "Is she humping you to keep her bed warm old man?"

Medda could feel the moment Ser Davos unleashed his full might on the unsuspecting woman. In her nearly three years of service to the Queen in the North, Medda had never seen Ser Davos lay his authority down with such finality. She'd heard stories, of course, of what the aging knight had said during the Battle of the Bastards. The telling and seeing of it were spectacularly different.

"The Stewardess of Winterfell extended you hospitality, and you've chosen to take a piss on it." With a flick of his good hand, he motioned for two nearby guards to his side. As the shabbily dressed guards she knew as Elin and Rodell hurried over, the intelligence and cadence of his next words pounded through Medda's brain. "I want you to take a good look around. All these people will be housed, fed, and kept alive this winter under her guidance. When spring comes they'll have survived by the sheer determination of this woman and the king and queen of the north. If you're angry and distressed, most people can sympathize and understand. But when you throw insults and slander in the face of the Stewardess of Winterfell, your invitation is revoked."

"And who the fuck are you?" Sybell sounded sickingly sweet for all the crudeness in her voice.

"The man who's putting you on a wagon at dawn bound for Lord Asheton and Blackbird Hall." Ser Davos never swayed his tight expression from the sputtering look on Sybell's face. "She sleeps with the horses tonight, and can break her fast with some bread in the morning. Tell Lord Asheton to find a place for her in the scullery. She's not welcome here at Winterfell any longer."

With that, he stepped aside for the guards to perform their task, his hand reaching for Medda as he pulled her away with him. The guards were intent on their duty, taking Sybell by each arm. "This way," Rodell said gruffly.

Sybell spit on the ground, her aim coming dangerously close to the hem of Medda's cloak. "Fucking southerner. Your dragon queen doesn't rule here."

"Tell Lord Ashton the Hand of the King sends his regards."

As the realization sunk into Sybell's mind, Medda cast her one last cold expression. As much as she had detested Ser Davos interjecting on her behalf, Medda found herself unable to utter them. Whatever tragedies had happened after Hamma had marched south were now firmly in the past. Her husband's lover had found a way to survive, how she'd accomplished that fete only the Gods knew. But where Medda found herself growing colder with each passing day, Sybell appeared to be blazing hotter, her anger and fury burning like the summer sun. Men were attracted to heat, it wouldn't be long until Sybell found herself another lover from the host of survivors still alive in the North. Sybell would survive. Sybell might move on one day.

Medda stood in the snow, watching the other woman hissing and beleaguering the guards with large verbal strikes. At least the anger made Sybell look more alive. What would it be like to feel that much again?

"Apologies mistress, if I overstepped my bounds." The voice of Ser Davos folded over her with its warmth. "I'll not have someone here intent on making more trouble than you need."

"It was generous, what you did." Medda said softly, continuing to watch the guards pull their charge toward the block of stables. "She might be able to grieve better when she returns home."

"I'll not mince words about it, but what she needs is a swift kick in the ass," Davos replied stiffly. "Given what's happened to everyone, a bit of disrespect is understandable, but anything more, it upsets the balance."

Medda nodded, meeting his steady gaze with her own. "Thank you, Ser Davos, for your assistance." With that, the stewardess turned in the direction of the communal kitchens, intent on taking a shift serving dinner to all the hungry people of Winter Town. Without the steadfast presence of the knight beside her, the air felt empty, but she paid it no mind. And if she paid attention to the little niggling pain in her chest, she would have seen something akin to unrequited affection running across Ser Davos' handsome face.

XxX

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