The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

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

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Chapter 6

Ironborn at the mill.

It should have been too unbelievable to be real, but Jon had seen far stranger things in his short life. Although over a year of peace had passed since Westeros had defeated the Night King, this quiet time of rebuilding had led to moments of unease settling in the back of his mind. As much as he desperately wanted the word to right itself into a semblance of peaceful order, he couldn't shake the feeling something bad was bound to happen. His wife, who had a curious way of sensing exactly what worried him, had kissed him sweetly and told him the two of them would face whatever problems arose in their own time.

The treaty his aunt, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, had signed with the Ironborn before the end of the war, had explicitly forbade roving, raping, and reeving. The old ways and the corruption of the old world were over. The present was a time to bring about new changes and improve the world they'd been born into.

Then why would Ironborn be at the mill?

Jon had powered through the front doors of the keep, clad in his efficiency armor and his great sword. Where other kings would have been content to allow regular soldiers to see to a disturbance in the area, he'd chosen to take a direct approach.

The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

The ride to the mill was short, and the years of running headlong into danger was tempered with sword work honed from years of fierce conflict. Backed by a personal guard of ten men plus Sandor Clegane, the Ironborn raiders who hadn't been nearly pecked to death by the congregation of crows had been running away toward the safety of the nearby river. When three of the men had been dispatched, Jon had ordered the remaining two men to be taken back to Winterfell to be tried and executed for their crimes. There was no need for interrogation, as Bran was probably weaving his way through the thought and memory of his greensight to sort out the details.

What Jon hadn't been prepared for was how single mindedly Ser Gregor fought his way through the semi-opened mill door, yelling the names of the miller and her adopted daughter. A swift inspection of the single open room appeared at first to be empty, until a hollow creaking sound caught every man's attention. Through a seemingly innocuous space in the floor where the wall joint met a stooped part of the wall, a short wooden plank popped out of place, followed by two more in quick succession. By the fourth plank, the dusty hair and elfin face of little girl broke through the hole. Tear tracks were evident on her skin, and while she never uttered a word, the look of relief in her eyes was apparent to all when Clegane rushed to the hiding place to pull the child and a pale skinned woman from their refuge.

A hidey hole. Winterfell's miller didn't feel safe enough not to have one.

What had been surprising to King Jon had been way both woman and child had fallen readily in to the arms of Ser Gregor, the little girl evidently familiar and trusting enough to wrap her tiny arms around his neck and plant herself in the center of the scarred knight's chest. The woman, content to wrap an arm around both child and knight, heaved several long breaths as Ser Gregor whispered something gruffly in her ear.

What words were exchanged, Jon may never find out, but whatever the scraggly haired man had said seemed to lend assurance in a way a small troop of Winterfell soldiers could not. Without looking at any of the other men, Clegane hoisted both charges on his own horse, and rode them back to the safety of Winterfell's walls. Jon thought better of stopping the man from leaving with the miller and child. The scarred knight had protected Sansa during a dark and dangerous time when he himself had been away leading men into battle at the Wall. Clegane had always been an enigma, and his behavior, while not out of character for a knight, was definitely something Jon would have never expected.

While waiting for Bran to complete his journey through a veil of time which only his younger brother could see, Jon looked up from his desk map of Westeros, and through the light of the wooden door leading to his bedchamber. Sansa was asleep, he could just make out her flaming red hair through the glow of a single candle at her bedside. While his wife slept fitfully, the new babe in her womb slumbering with her, his mind was troubled with the presence of invaders in his lands. As much as the king wished for the wise council of his queen, Sansa was in need of rest. The birth of their babe crept ever closer, and just as Jon had fervently hoped he would be at his wife's side during her labor, he was conscious of the possibility that yet another battle or yet another war would disturb the peace he'd worked so hard to create.

A quiet knock on the door revealed Ser Davos, who looked so tired an in need of his own bed.

"Yer grace," The Onion Knight began, "The bodies of the Ironborn have been searched. There was nothing on them, save the weapons they carried. A riding party will scout the river for a boat in the morning. We have the prerogative to ship their remains back to the Iron Islands or bury them at sea to be with their drowned god."

"We'll wait from word from Yara Greyjoy. Should she claim them, she may want to make an example of two men yet living." Jon swept another wave of fatigue from his forehead. "It's possible she didn't know they were acting against her orders."

"I don't suppose your aunt the queen would have information which could help us? Her master of whispers is the best."

Ser Davos was genuine in his respect for the Dragon Queen and her robed advisor Lord Varys. While Jon never felt the need for a Master of Whispers, the threat to Daenerys's portion the kingdom was an ever-perpetuating problem. With the Free Cities under her control, the riches of the wise masters were the queens to use as she pleased. Which made the prospect of sacking any of the cities as well as the larger part of Westeros an enticing prospect.

"I sent a raven off to Daenerys a few hours ago." Jon replied tiredly. "It's possible she may fly here if we need her, but with the winter being as wild as it is, I'd prefer she didn't risk the life of her dragons over five rogue Ironborn."

When Ser Davos said nothing, the king spoke aloud.

"It doesn't make sense," Jon mused quietly. "What Ironborn are left in Westeros returned to the Iron Islands to ride out the winter. What few ships have been seen have been ordered to return to Pike. The Ironborn are a cagey bunch, to be sure, but they won't disobey their queen. Not the ones we know of, anyway."

His older advisor took a moment to think before responding. "The Ironborn are mariners at heart, yer grace. Vicious fighters and pirates, yes, but they're also explorers and black marketeers in their own way as well. It's possible the Ironborn who breached our lands weren't in Westeros when the Night King was on the march."

"How so?"

"Well, it takes a man two years to pass beyond the Summer Sea and Sothoryos, all the way to the Jade Sea. The better part of three, if he's not in a hurry. And there are a lot of points of interest between here and there. The waters are so infested with traders and pirates alike, the Ironborn would blend right in. And that's just the getting there. After you figure the pillaging, looting, and so forth, an Ironborn man could be away from Westeros for the better part of seven years. Its entirely possible anyone away from that long wouldn't even know about what the rest of his people endured while he was away."

Jon was thoughtful for a long moment. "Suppose some of the Ironborn raiders were away from Westeros. What would they need to return home?"

"A ship, and healthy men to sail 'her," Ser Davos replied. "Safe harbors to take on supplies, and a hell of a lotta luck."

"So, if there were five of them in a dingy?"

"Wouldn't have made it out of most harbors."

Jon nodded, that stinging sensation of unease which had been difficult to pin down now seemed to manifest into a solid idea. A ship, maybe several ships, long away from Westeros. Returning to the shores with their stolen bounty. Rich enough to have a good stash of weapons, supplies, and slaves. Willfully ignorant or oblivious to the changes in their native land.

The world had changed, but they had not. And that's what made them dangerous.

"What if this was just a scoutin' party?" The Onion Knight suggested. "I'm by no means an export in Ironborn practices or methods, but it would be safer for the crew if a small group of men were let loose in the countryside for a quick look."

"Spotting out caches of food and communities ripe for sacking," the king finished. "Maybe. It would be hard for a large ship or even two large ships from hiding anywhere in the north."

"There's one place no one else would go, yer' grace." Ser Davos supplied.

"Where?"

"In the harbors north of the wall."

It had taken the better part of the night before the residents of Winterfell had fallen into an uneasy slumber. By morning, Olenna Tyrell was holding court in her comfortable ante chamber, her writing tools were organized into neat and orderly rows of correspondence, ink, and extra quills. Her personal seal, which she'd brought with her all the way from Highgarden, stool proudly next to the gold rimmed candle holder to the side.

Her morning routine, which consisted of absolutions, a light breakfast followed by a walk around the glass gardens, usually led to a few uninterrupted hours of correspondence. Letters were needed for almost everything these days. With House Tyrell wiped out, it had been the prerogative of Queen Daenerys to appoint Lord Samwell Tarly to be Lord Protector of the Reach. While Olenna couldn't fault the young man for his overall efficiency and attention to detail, he still seemed a timid sort. While he should have been disqualified from the appointment due to his vows to the Night's Watch, the few men left guarding the Wall had instead reworked the rules of their ancient order, allowing for ten years of service to the Watch to wash away any crimes committed across the kingdom. Not that the first born and rather plump eldest son of House Tarly had committed any crime other than being a disappointment to his father.

"Sam's more of a scholar than a soldier," the King in the North had said after news of Samwell's appointment had arrived. "He studied at the Citadel for a time, and he's one of the smartest people I know."

"An insufferable know-it-all, then." Olenna had grumbled.

"What he doesn't know, he looks for the answers," Jon assured. "Sam's a good man, my lady. He won't look to push you away, but he would look to you to advise him."

It was disconcerting to leave the Reach in the hand of Randyll Tarly's first-born son. The former head of House Tarly had sometimes been a peculiar bloom in her well-groomed garden. Loyal, an excellent hunter, but a bit too exacting for Oleanna's taste. Still, House Tarly standing in the seat of power in Highgarden was a damn sight better than those power-hungry opportunists in House Rowan.

She'd hardly seen this Samwell Tarly when he was young, and his weight and temperament was so different from his sire that the boy's swift journey to the Wall had not necessarily been a surprise. Still, this young Tarly had found himself in the Dragon Queen's good graces, and so far, he had proved himself to be a capable administrator. His letters were some of the few Olenna actually looked forward to reading, if just to see the boy pull himself out of a tricky diplomatic problem she herself had gracefully handled decades ago.

The young had to learn from their mistakes.

This recent letter from Lord Samwell Tarly, bearing the seal of the striding huntsman with his bow drawn, carried not only a bevy of reports, but all the news and events occurring throughout the Reach. A grandson had been born to Lord Leygood. House Costayne was renovating and improving the harbor near Three Towers to accommodate an influx of ships heading to Oldtown. To promote a better alliance between the Reach and Dorne, the niece of Arys Oakheart had been sent wed one of the sons of House Allyrion of Godsgrace. Little Sam was becoming quite capable of writing his lessons and reading some of the books from the family's library. It seemed the Tarly boy had been busy of late with concerns outside of his administration duties, as his wife, Gilly, was expecting their second child.

Time would tell if the fertility of the Reach would rub off on the likes of House Tarly. The gods knew the cultivation of family needed the gentle hand and love of a patient gardener. From what she could make out, maybe this Tarly patriarch would break the mold.

Two forgettable letters had arrived from few quibbling houses near Blackhaven seeking to circumvent their new Lord Protector. The others were from her Redwyne cousins, with another three from her grandnieces scattered across the Reach. Being the honored guest of House Stark had made the younger set salivate over what moveable goods were left in her home. They all would wait until the snows melted and the slumbering dragon under Winterfell rose again before she'd ever allow her extended kin to walk willy-nilly into her estates and take what they wished.

There was always a chance one of these Stark pups would take up the golden rose sigil a few years from now. Maybe not the boys, but a little girl - now that would be just what the Reach needed. A fierce Stark girl with no fear in hear heart and a capable mind. Lovely enough to tempt a second son of a powerful house in the Reach, and smart enough to know how to out maneuver his entire family. Mentoring that sort of lady would suit the Queen of Thorns exceptionally well.

But today, there were other concerns pressing down upon the inhabitants of Winterfell.

The respectful knock on the chamber door heralded the arrival of the ever efficient Stewardess of Winterfell, whom either by default or devotion was charged with escorting her to meet with the King of the North. Medda Forrester was everything Olenna wished more women would be – bright, direct, and not given to fits of giggles or other garish behavior inappropriate over the age of eighteen.

"My Lady," Medda opened the door as she spoke, her quick eyes noting the writing instruments at hand. "When you're finished, the king and queen have requested your council."

"Your timing, as usual Medda, is impeccable." Olenna rose from her seat with all the grace her aging bones could muster. "All these can be sent south with the next rider, provided the poor horse can make it through."

The stewardess nodded, keeping a mental tally of the letters on the desk. I'll send the rider up in an hour to fetch them."

Olenna nodded her approval. "Good, now let's go see ruckus these Ironborn raiders have stirred up. It's been some time since we've had this brand of excitement." While she was loathe to walk with a cane now that the damnable winter had gotten into her bones, the stewardess' arm was a capable support for walking the first few steps on her journey to the king's war room.

"I heard you were out and about with the Hand of the King when this whole affair started." Olenna began without a hint accusation. Age might have taken away most of her gentler facets, but she was extra careful when it came to speaking to the stewardess about personal matters. "I heard it from one of my maids who saw the two of you and that sweaty little boy run through the front gates hell bent for shelter."

"My lady," the dark haired woman began.

Olenna cut her off. "I wouldn't pry if he wasn't one of the most capable people I met during the war against the long night. Steadfast at the king's side and intent on returning as many men home alive as possible."

"We were just walking."

"I'm not your mother, dear. You don't need to make excuses to take an unescorted walk with a handsome gentleman."

The comment seemed to joust her companion a bit. "You think I'd go for a walk with someone just because he's handsome?"

"Of course not." Olenna brushed the question aside. "You're far too sensible for that, and overly invested in your position here to waste your time on such frivolous pursuits."

"Thank you, my lady."

"I'm merely noting how a late afternoon stroll with a handsome and good-hearted man ended with the two of you raising the alarm which saved at least two lives, not to mention the safety and security of this ancient yet somehow frost repellent pile of stone."

When the stewardess couldn't bring herself to answer, the older lady relinquished her penchant to question and squeezed the younger woman's arm affectionately. "My apologies, my dear. It amuses me to take an interest in other people's personal business. You took the whole affair in stride, from what I heard. A few short moments after you exited the frying pan you and Ser Davos patiently organized the extinguishing of the fire. There was the handsome Hand of the King, looking stoic and strong while you swept the little foundling boy into the stout walls of the keep to inform the queen and ready the healers for when the men returned. My maid was quite intent on telling me every detail, even if she didn't have a very good view of the courtyard in question."

"It was nothing like that at all." Medda said flatly.

"My maid is often given to reporting items of interest with a heavy-handed dose of her own romanticism. She keeps her comments about King Jon to herself, which is good, because it shows she has a half a brain. I don't tolerate that sort of swooning foolery. But when it comes to the older and still handsome Hand of the King, well, my maid says what she thinks. And she's not the only one."

"I didn't think many women would take an interest in him in that way, my lady." The words were polite, but from the intonation Olenna could tell that last comment had piqued the stewardess' interest.

"Most women are attracted to power, my dear. And with the king happily married, most eyes fall to the next person in line. And I don't mean the queen. As a woman she is formidable, where those intent on pulling the strings find a man to be biddable. Thankfully, the Hand is a reasonable man who serves his king and keeps his trousers buttoned. But he's a widower with no children and no heirs to his house. Only time will tell if he falls into the kind of vanity which drives men to a quick death."

"What would that be, my lady?"

"Expiring in the conjugal embrace of an ambitious and nubile young bride. He needs an heir, and she wants a piece of the power he wields. He picks a pretty young little thing who's clever enough to make him feel twenty years younger, and sooner or later, his body gives out. In my experience, men his age tend to exert themselves when trying to get a woman with child. It's the strain of it, you know, which does them in. And what stays behind is the lovely little wife. She gets his lands, his titles, and if she's truly a sharp little thing, she'll be breeding an heir. Whether it's her husband's or someone else's, that would be anyone's guess."

"That's rather mercenary, my lady." The younger woman replied in a neutral tone. "From what I know of Ser Davos, he's not the type of man to attach himself to a woman like that."

"You may be right," Olenna conceded carefully. "But the feminine mystique has its own way to catching up with a man and bending him into knots. If I didn't relish my own independence overmuch, this Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, wouldn't stand a chance. But at my age, a warm fire, a glass of wine, and the company of the younger set is all you need to keep life feeling very full."

They turned the corner to the king's council chambers, where the mix of voices and accents were muffled by the thick wooden door. "Ah! Here we are. I trust I'll see you when this damnable discussion is over?"

Medda nodded with a somber expression. "I look forward to hearing what isn't fit for the gossips of the keep."

"Well said." Olenna smirked and let herself in through the door.

It was in the brief interlude when she relinquished Medda's arm at the door to traverse the short walk to her usual council chair by the large table that Olenna had time to study the postures of the party assembled in the room. King Jon stood next to his wife, the upper half of his body stooped over studying a map of the North surrounded by his closest kin and confidants – Arya Stark, Gendry Baratheon, and Ser Davos Seaworth. Sansa was seated next to him with a pile of raven scrolls laid out in her delicate hands as the swell of her belly made standing difficult. Brandon Stark and his rolling chair were situated nearby, his hand clasped in those of his wife.

To anyone else, the slow closing of the door was an action to be ignored, but it was Olenna's keen eyes which spotted the look exchanged between the Hand of the King and the woman in the doorway. It was one she had seen throughout her life between a man and a woman as they stood on the breathless edge before the tumble into something which could only be defined as 'something more.' Not potent enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room, but a brief flair of feeling which can only exist when the alchemy between two people was strong.

Love was a game best suited for the young Lady Tyrell thought as she seated herself gracefully in a fur lined chair. Thankfully, she didn't have to worry about burying another husband. War was a game better suited for the older and more experienced. And with the players on her team ready, it was time to get down to the business at hand.

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