The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Sorry about the delay. I wrote and published my first book (non-fiction, you'll probably never read it), had material left over to develop a second non-fiction title, and started a new novel this November. Yes, I've been busy, but busy with a purpose. I will be finishing this fic, just at a much slower pace than I expected. I still love it, and I've set a deadline of having it finished before the last GOT season. Thanks for your patience!

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

XxX

Chapter 5

If there was one thing Brandon Stark genuinely enjoyed in the world, it was warging into a flying creature.

Birds, dragons, insects, it didn't matter. He loved the sensation of sailing above the earth, watching the world pass below him with little more than a lift of air and the movement of wings.

Even as a small boy, Bran couldn't quite manage to keep his feet on the ground. He'd been forever climbing any structure which offered a view from above. The need to climb had driven his mother spare, and she'd made him promise on more than one occasion to keep his feet on the ground. But like all small boys, Bran hadn't listened, and he'd paid the price for the childish impulse to reach the next window, the next tallest ledge, and ultimately, the top of the Broken Tower, where his life changed irrevocably forever.

Bran often wondered, if he'd kept his feet on the ground that day, would he still have become the Three Eyed Raven? Would the burden had passed to another? His visions never revealed these lesser roads not taken, and perhaps it was better that way. For one thing, Bran never would have met his wife Meera Reed, and no matter how far he flew or what animal he warged into, it was the steady presence of his wife which kept him grounded to the here and now where he belonged.

If it hadn't been for Meera, he would have been tempted to drown in the visions of the past as opposed to returning to the harsh realities of the present. She touched one of the few soft places still left in his heart, and helped him reconcile the duality of his existence. Whenever he was lost, Meera's stern voice and firm grip prevented him from plunging below into the sea of visions which certainly would have welcomed him like the spectral arms of death. When he awoke to her sweet kisses and the sweep of her unruly dark hair across his cheek, Bran only had to glance into his wife's elfin face and know his attention was needed on the present plane of the living.

She anchored his heart and part of his soul, Bran thought, and if he lost her, there would little temptation to stay in the world.

But for now, he was free to fly high above the ground in the guise of a crow, one of the largest ones which remained close to Winterfell to pick at scraps left behind by the human inhabitants of the keep. This bird was a keen one, his eyes kept a sharp lookout below as he soared on the wind. Winter had limited movement of people, animals, and supplies to the area, but there always a few new things to see during these flights. Sometimes he saw a herd of elk foraging for plants under the snow. On other occasions, he watched the new groups of refugees headed for the winter town encampment. Today was different, he could feel the tendrils of warning gliding across his skin. There was something coming, but what?

The crow swooped high over the horizon, surveying the land below for dead prey to eat. He was a fair distance from the keep, but close enough to see brown moving figures of people. His eyes caught a shiver of movement from the trees. They weren't dressed as refugees, their moves were too cautious and quick to be taken as anything less than a band of strong armed warriors.

Not the free folk. Not a set of guards. The group of five men rushing through the woods toward Winterfell's mill were something altogether different. Their weathered clothing and rough swords bore symbols Bran hadn't seen in years.

Ironborn.

Bran maneuvered on strong wings lower down to the newly rebuilt mill. He recalled his wife's words when she had visited the site several months ago. The miller was a woman, Meera had stated cheekily with a sparkle in her eye, Allyse - a merchant's daughter who had taken in an orphan boy and a girl while everyone was off fighting the Night King. The dimpled cheeked Allyse, her hands busy pushing a cart into the storage shed didn't see the five men moving quickly toward the mill. Commanding the crow to squawk loudly in warning, the miller's pretty face turned from one of focus to alarm. She pushed the cart the final distance into the shed, and closed the doors quickly. Her quick eyes scanned the white woods looking for the source of the bird when she spotted the men and their drawn swords closing in at a distance.

The woman moved quickly calling for the boy bringing in water from the well to run to Winterfell. The boy seemed hesitant to leave, but the warning in the woman's voice gave him no room to refuse. With a rush of legs, the boy was off, tearing through the snow on the path toward the keep, while Allyse closed herself inside the building, the audible sound of the board being slid into its brace echoing through the still air. Sitting in his branch from above, Bran could see the Ironborn approaching the building, ignorant or uncaring of the boy racing down the path away from their location.

But what would five Ironborn raiders be doing here? They were going to burn the place down, or sack the mill for the grain and flour inside. And they were going to do so without any fear of immediate reprisal. Or so they thought.

Just as the largest of the men began to hack at the bolted door, Bran commanded the crow to swoop downward, pointy claws digging into hair and a sharp beak pecking at unshielded eyes. The surprise attack startled the man, his sword swatting uselessly at the bird, too distracted by pain and shock to do more than sweep his free arm through the air.

With his keen bird eyes, Bran could see the men looked thin and underfed. The sharp talons of the crow took one last dig before lifting up and gaining air back into a nearby tree. The man swore, blood leaking from the open wounds on his head and face. The bright red blotches fell in the snow and flew with fury into splatters on the wood door.

"Fuckin' crow!" the man howled. "Come back down you shit, so I can gut you and eat you!" The man's spit followed his blood to the ground, while the other men looked warily around for indications imminent attack.

"Fuck the bird," another man with a weasel face hissed. "Knock down the fucking door so we can get what we came for."

"You in there, girlie?" The taunting voice of a pox marked man rose above the curses of the big man. "We'll go easy on ya."

The larger man pushed the others away and slammed his body into the door. Another of the ill-kept men followed suit. Bran didn't allow the attackers to rest as he continued to swoop, peck, and distract the men who were attempting to breach the door. The chaos caused by one bird kept the men off kilter and suspicious of every noise and crow caw. Allowing his bird host to rest on a tall branch, Bran called on the rest of Winterfell's crows, causing a black swarm to burst over the walls and over the horizon. It would be a few minutes before the rest of the crows would arrive, hopefully buying time for the vulnerable boy to racing through the snow to raise the alarm.

In the shallow light of late afternoon, Ser Davos waited patiently outside the vast kitchen door just off the side courtyard. The heavy dark and cold of winter surrounded the grey walls, the thick stone of the keep was kept alive by the hot water springs which pumped through the structure like blood through the body, keeping everyone inside protected in warmth. Just outside the stone structure, the sentries and small folk kept themselves warm with elevated brazier fires in small alcoves in and around the keep. There wasn't a fire posted outside the kitchens, but as the door to the cooking stations opened, a nearly scalding wave of heat burst through the open air.

The kitchen boys, and one disgruntled scullery maid made their way through the door into the thinning light. The boys were in a hurry, their voices full of mischief, while the maid trudged another bucket of slops out for the nearby pigs.

It was the second waft of warm air across his back which had Davos turning back to the kitchen, as the shadow passing through the archway made him stand a little straighter.

The Stewardess of Winterfell, her soft dark hair left loose behind a line of braids, emerged from the overheated warmth of the keep. She wore her cloak like well-loved armor, its tailored lines and occasional mended spots seemed to hold any nervousness she held inside close to her body. When she nodded in his direction, Ser Davos greeted her with a smile and a round of innocent conversation.

"Mistress." Ser Davos began politely. "The path to the mill is clear." It was his invitation to walk with him a while, as for two weeks now they'd taken to traversing side by side each afternoon for an hour before the supper was served. The burden of revealing their destination rested firmly on his shoulders, but as the deeper snowfall kept their choices limited to well-trodden areas, it wasn't difficult to make a decision.

Medda nodded stoically as she tucked her arms deeper into her cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She didn't smile, but Davos could see she was making an attempt to appear pleasant and happy to see him. Just what he needed, he inwardly groaned. A woman with teeth clenched in duty made for a poor walking companion. When he'd seen her striding through the courtyard two weeks ago, her dark hair pulled back in a tidy braid, he'd held his breath for a moment. She'd been particularly kind that day, her lilting voice politely asking for his company on a walk later that afternoon. He'd been hopeful it would be the beginning of something pleasing to them both, a steady sort of companionship where they were free to express ideas and thoughts in a conversational manner.

It was sadly, not turning out to be the case.

They spent most of the time in silence, and while Ser Davos thought himself a patient man, his mouth seemed to run on its own accord. He'd fairly spilled his guts at one point, relaying a letter he'd received from Lord Wyman Manderly in White Harbor in regards to a particularly inventive fish thief when he read the faraway look in the Stewardess' gaze. Hoping to garner a reaction he altered the story and instead brought up a gift for Lady Sansa's name day.

"The king seems intent on celebrating it this year," Davos said congenially. "Neither one of 'em seemed to care much for their own name day a year ago, given what they went through."

The constant upheaval and danger of their monarchs' lives had been too difficult for either of them to celebrate something as common as a nameday. Lady Sansa, with her two abysmal marriages and abuse at the hands of her captors had found little in the past to celebrate, while King Jon had been too busy protecting the realm at the sharp end of a sword for longer than he'd thought possible. The war and struggle of the time before and just after their marriage had taken priority over everything else. In the aftermath of everything they'd endured, it was time to start making the smaller celebrations commonplace again.

"But things are changing, and hopefully for the better," Davos continued, pushing memories of the past away. "The king asked me to see what the silversmiths in White Harbor had on offer. The treasury can afford a trinket or two, and given how the roads are clear, whatever the king chooses should arrive in time."

It was a clear invitation to share her thoughts, and he gave the Stewardess of Winterfell a moment to contemplate. Gifts were tricky things, in Davos' opinion. To someone who wanted everything, nothing would be good enough. For those who had nothing, anything out of the ordinary could leave them in rapture. The red haired Lady of Winterfell had always been kind to him, and even after a year of her near daily company he wouldn't claim to know what type of gift would please her.

The stewardess was slow to answer and though her face sported a thoughtful expression, the lack of response had Davos shaking his head in defeat. Whatever the lovely lady at his side was thinking, she wasn't going to share.

"My apologies, then," Ser Davos said quickly. "I tend to talk too much and at other times, not enough, I suppose."

The lady, bless her, did say something then. "The fault is mine, ser." Her voice was calm and steady, but it belayed a deep emotion behind it. "Lady Sansa's nameday –," Her voice caught for a moment, before she continued. "It is-was my eldest son's nameday as well."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." Davos said quickly his voice cracked in sympathy. Grief had a way of gnawing on a person, and while he'd mourned the death of his own wife and son, he'd grieved their loss long ago. The stewardess hadn't had the opportunity from what he could reckon. No wonder she hadn't wanted to talk.

"I should be the one to apologize, Ser Davos," her voice was clear and cool in the crisp air. "I have not been as mindful as I should. You brought a question to me, and I haven't given you an answer."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," the knight replied, not wanting to press the lady further.

"No, it was a good question. A fair one." She took a moment to gather her thoughts, and Davos found himself holding his breath. "You're a good man, Ser Davos. You've always had a kind word to spare for the men in the bailey and the smallfolk at the door. Our queen has nothing but praise for you, and while I do not know our king well, everyone can see he trusts and admires you."

"That's very kind, mistress, but I'm not a man who requires accolades."

She interrupted his next thought. "You deserve it," Medda continued forcefully. "The queen encouraged me to get to know you better."

"A polite way to say 'ordered', you mean." The bitter taste of something angry was on his tongue.

"Encouraged," his companion replied gently. "You're the Hand of the King. I owe you the courtesy of listening to your concerns and giving you my honesty."

This wasn't what Davos was expecting, nor what he wanted. He rushed to interrupt her. "Mistress –,"

"Speaking is difficult for me," she continued as if he hadn't said a word at all. "I'm not used to talking so freely. With anyone. Apart from the queen. The war and everything else with it made the ease of things disappear."

That was the problem, Davos thought.

"I figured as much," he replied. "The war wasn't easy, you didn't know who to trust. I don't take it personally, honestly I don't. There are some things in a person's life they keep to themselves. I don't have any ill intentions toward you and your position, Mistress Medda. I'm not one to pry, either. I just know it's hard to walk around with a load of trouble on your mind and not get lost in it. For the longest time, I didn't have anyone, just a boat and the open water, so I told the water whatever came to mind."

She looked at him, her beautiful brown eyes inscrutable. "Laugh if you will," Ser Davos continued, "but the water didn't seem to mind."

The stewardess smiled then, her eyes had melted back into their usual astute state. "Silver thread." Her words came out in a gentle lilt.

"Pardon?"

"Her grace doesn't have silver thread. She has pins, broaches, and a silver comb, but not silver thread."

"That's a thing?" Davos did not intend to sound thick, but silver thread was far beyond his smuggling experience. "Never saw such a thing myself."

"Her grace takes great pains in her needlework. She told me about when she was learning to sew, how her lady mother promised her silver and gold thread if she made her own dress without the help of the septa. The thread was for the embellishments. Embroidery work."

"The fancy bits."

Medda nodded. "Her grace finished the dress, so Lady Stark sent for the thread, and the queen kept it, waiting to use it for a special dress. She took it with her to King's Landing when she left with Lord Stark. The silver thread was the last present she'd ever received from her mother, and she never got a chance to use it. She's never sent for any since."

It was a deeply personal story, one probably shared in a quiet chamber during the darkest time of the war. The stewardess had kept the queen's confidence, and shared a secret that Ser Davos felt a deep honor for what he'd learned. Beyond that, he felt sympathy for the queen, who'd left childhood behind when her father had died, and for the stewardess who had kept her lady's secrets. Davos thanked whatever gods were left for finding himself in the service of a sane and altruistic ruler.

"Silver thread," the words sounded foreign to his tongue. "I'm not sure if Lord Manderly knows the ins and outs of something so small, but I reckon he'll find out where to acquire some. I'm sure there's all sorts of silver thread. Maybe even a highly reflective kind." When she continued to smile, Davos couldn't help but push his luck a bit more. "Should I be tellin' his grace to be on the lookout for silver embroidery on his shirts then? It could come in handy to distract the soldiers while he's training 'em."

She smiled broadly then, the ridiculous image of King John training men in the yard with shirts lined in useless embellishments. "I'm sure the queen will save it for a surcoat or tunic. We wouldn't want the men to be distracted by their king when it's their wives they should be admiring."

Davos couldn't help but guffaw. He tried to keep the laugh inside, as he wouldn't have been sure she was joking. But in the moment, her brown eyes had actually sparkled instead of cooling to their usual deep tone. They walked companionable silence for a time, eyes glued to the ground, but occasionally, as if in unison, they glanced up at each other and then back to the ground.

If anyone besides the two guards standing watch at the keep had seen them, they could have been mistaken for a newly courting couple. Had it been any other woman, Davos thought, gossiping tongues would have been wagging. He was trying his hardest for this to be different. Friendship was a slow courtship of another kind, Davos reckoned. Trust was earned now, not freely given as it had before the war. In time, he hoped he would earn her honest council. But for now, he was content to let her get use to sharing the same space, the same air, and walk side by side alone together and actually enjoy it.

A sudden rush of wings erupted from the castle behind them. The maddening torrent was so swift, it jolted the silence of the afternoon like a roar of a dragon. Unthinking of his actions, Davos reached for the woman beside him and pulled her down to their knees, sinking low into the snow. Heart pounding, Davos watched as a murder of several hundred crows sailed through the air above them, keeping a little above the tree line. Their unworldly caws sounded eerily of the echo of grown men's voices.

Davos kept his eyes on the crows longer than he'd anticipated, and when he finally looked across at the lady beside him, the confusion and alarm in her eyes was evident. Gone was the kind and lighthearted smile. It wasn't just fear in her eyes, but wide eyed alarm. Whatever had caused the crows to band together like a black winged army?

Davos thought quickly. It might have something to do with Brandon Stark. It was the type of unnatural grouping the onion knight had witness at first hand during the war with the Night King. But something was amiss.

After the crows had passed overhead, Ser Davos helped the stewardess to her feet and scanned the tree line for the first sign of a fight. When he didn't see one, Davos turned and squeezed Medda's upper arms in a gesture he hoped both grounded and comforted.

"The crows –," she began, anxious fear laced her words.

"I know. Something's wrong, what it is, I don't know. They're headed in the direction of the-," Davos' jaw went slack as he looked at a stumbling figure running down the path toward them. Whoever it was, the body was small, no more than a child.

"Mill." Medda's voice said in a hushed tone, her fingers clutched at the smuggler's dark cloak. "Something's wrong at the mill."

The boy, who had continued to run like a hound from hell was chasing him, yelled at the two adults in the road with a mixture of relief and pent up fear. He was sweaty, his face was burned red from the cold and exertion. His legs were wet from the knees down, and his spindly limbs were pumping as hard as they could without falling outright into the snow.

"Thomas!" Medda tore away from Ser Davos' grip. The sound of her yell was one reserved for a banshee. She ran toward the boy, heedless of any danger in front of her. "Thomas!"

Keeping his feet beneath him the best he could, Davos crossed the length of land running at her side. The boy nearly collapsed in Medda's arms, his breath came in hard pants as if he would never breathe enough air again. The stewardess checked the boy over quickly, hands searching for blood, injuries, and signs of struggle.

"Men with swords," The boy wheezed between frantic breaths. "At the mill. A bunch of them."

Medda tucked the boy into her side, her hands moving around his face in a motherly gesture. "Just now?" Ser Davos turned back toward the road leading to the mill, his eyes scanning the deepening dark for any sign of movement.

"Allyse said run to Winterfell. Get soldiers. Greta was inside. Allyse bolted the door." Thomas' breaths came in hot little puffs as he tried to slow his breathing.

"We need to go back," Davos kept his vision focused on the road behind them. "Can you run?" Medda jerked her head in affirmation, while the trembling boy at her side huffed out a stout "Yes."

Keeping the boy between them, Davos did his best to keep them on their feet and moving quickly forward. He wasn't much of a runner, but time was pressing on his neck. Even at his age, it was imperative for the three of them to get back to the castle and warn the others. The road, which had taken the better part of a half hour to stroll, was replaced by swiftness of feet on the snowy ground.

When they reached Winterfell's gates, it was with a flash of relief. But it was a hollow lump of cold comfort lodged in Ser Davos' throat. The afternoon, which had seemed so promising, was shattered by violence. Another reminder that security, no matter how well earned, was never a permanent state. Rushing past the first row of guards, Davos hurried to the center courtyard.

"Soldiers assemble! Raiders at the mill! To arms! To arms!" Davos pointed at a young guard posted at the upper gallery. "You! Inform the king! Men with swords at the mill!" The lanky lad scurried away, his feet racing down the upper corridor.

The clang of metal and the call of soldiers began filling the castle. "To arms!" another guard called. "Men with swords at the mill! To arms! Ready the horses boy!"

The unwavering grip on his cloaked arm went slack. In the rush to reach the safety of Winterfell's stone walls, he'd forgotten the tight hold he and the stewardess had kept on each other and the boy between them. It had felt natural to move and stay together during their flight back to the keep. Time seemed to slow before Davos' mind, the seconds stretching longer. He reached for the stewardess' hand, which seemed so diminutive to his own, as she was standing at his side.

She stopped, the barest of moments. Hands touched, melded. Then a grasp. Her chocolate eyes met his. The pressure of her grip joined with the acknowledgement in her eyes spoke louder than the din filling the yard. His old heart, which had seen a lifetime of hardship and trouble, felt a leap it hadn't known in many years. Recognition of something he wouldn't have believed existed yesterday.

A spark.

Bare hands slid bound together amid the chaos growing around them, but the look remained. Brown eyes filled to the brim with thanks had melted into the same realization. Ser Davos felt the thud of his heart and a stirring in his chest.

She recognized it too.

The angry yell of voices snapped the Hand of the King back to the present. It seemed to do the same for the stewardess, as Medda released the hold on his hand and gathered it around the heaving boy next to her.

"I must wait for the king." His tone was harsher than it should be, but given he was catching his breath, he was sure it could be forgiven.

"I'll tell the queen." The stewardess replied, her own breath slowing. Davos nodded in agreement. He watched her take the first deep breath in several minutes, while she maneuvered their young charge toward the kitchen door. "Let's get you inside."

Davos stood frozen on the spot, his stance unwavering apart from the heaving movements in his chest. But Medda's eyes didn't leave his until she'd slipped innocuously through the heavy wooden doors, her slender form obscured by the dark building beyond.

XxX

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