The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Thanks for your patience while I was working on this update. I've been working on a lot of writing projects IRL, so this story has been a bit slower than some of my others. If you're participating in NaNoWriMo this year, PM me and let's be writing buddies!

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

XxX

Chapter 7

It never mattered how many times he stood around a battle map, Gendry Baratheon always felt a bit out of place. He found his focus easily enough, taking in accounts of events, the placement of enemy armies, and the challenges of the situation ahead with little issue. The process was a lot like smithing, he thought. You had to eye the steel you were working with, check it over for flaws, and see the design before ever swinging a hammer. Steel could talk, and if you were patient and persistent enough to listen, the craftsman would have a good sword, ax, helm, or suit of armor as a result of his toil. The logical progression of the work had been irritating when he was younger, the repetition irksome. Then Tybo Mott had given him permission to make whatever he wanted on his own time, and he could own the physical fruits of his labor.

Then everything changed in the worst of ways. Or it seemed to, at the time. Gendry's dream of saving money and buying out his master's shop were snatched away overnight. In his master's rush to be rid of him, and the chaos which transpired on his march north to the Night's Watch, Gendry had lost nearly everything. The shop, with its steady meals and relative safety were gone. The bull's head helmet, which he'd labored for months to make and more than a dozen people had offered to buy, was gone too. His identity had disappeared as well. He was no longer Gendry the smith's apprentice. He was Gendry, the natural son of Robert of House Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andels and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Fat lot of good that had done him. Might has well have painted a bright target on his back and outfitted half the realm with bows and arrows.

In the years after he escaped the unnatural designs of the Red Witch and Lord Stannis on Dragonstone, the consistency and familiar rhythm of hammering, firing, and polishing metal in an anonymous shop was a comfort in a time when there were few to be had. He'd heard the rumors floating through the city streets of the capital. Who hadn't? It was easier to be a smith with a different name, working diligently at his trade, than to be involved with the ugliness of war.

Then everything had changed.

Gone were the hungry days in Kings Landing, arming Lannister soldiers. He left the city of his birth behind for good, and been swept up in the dizzying series of events erupting in the North. The Long Night had given him a cause when there had previously been none. Queen Daenerys had given him a title when he had little to his name but a war hammer and shabby suit of clothes. He left his wife, the formidable Arya Stark, just a few days after taking their marriage vows to fight the undead at the Wall alongside the most diverse army Westeros had ever seen.

After all the uncertainties life had thrown his way - a price on his head, forced captivity and labor at the hands of a Lannister army, his own uncle wishing him dead, and the exhaustive struggle to beat back the Long Night – it had led him to a quiet settled existence he never thought would be possible.

Then again, with everything Gendry had witnessed in his short life, it seemed a bit anticlimactic to hear how Ironborn raiders were intent on fucking things up again.

"What would the five of them want besides a few bags of flour?" Gendry asked, "Wouldn't be worth it for 'em, would it? Unless they wanted something else." He read the expressions and posture of everyone in the room. King Jon, his face stoic and eyes brimming with concern. Queen Sansa, thoughtful and serene. Bran with a blank eyes, looking into a world no one else could see, his wife Meera holding his hand like an anchor. Ser Davos Seaworth was pensive, seemingly weighing all the options in his mind before ever speaking a word.

"Or someone else," his wife supplied. Her words hung low and cool in the chilly air. "There are a lot of people here. Who would notice if some of them went missing?"

Gendry had grown to accept the cold fire in Arya's eyes whenever they stood around this damn table. She wasn't cruel or unkind, but there was a frigid tone to her voice which reminded him of how much the two of them had changed since they met. He'd heard the whispers and comments of the small folk as he hammered away in Winterfell's forge. If there was anyone who walked in the footsteps of the ancient winter kings, it was Arya Stark.

Cold. Decisive. Final.

A long year of rest and motherhood had not dulled his wife's words or will in the slightest bit.

"A few someones," Sansa Stark chimed in agreement with her sister. "The Ironborn have kidnapped and taken salt wives in the past. There are no wildlings north of the Wall that we know of, and there are a lot of women here. Widows. Their unmarried daughters. Children. Five men could easily bring three or four women back with them down the White Knife, and then onto a larger ship out at anchor. As long as their ship stays away from White Harbor, there'd be little to fear." The queen's eyes dropped to her belly, a reminder of how close she was to giving birth. If there was a time to be concerned with trouble invading their quiet home in Winterfell, it was now.

From his vantage point on the map, the King in the North ran a hand down the White Knife River, circling the sea at its base. His face was impassive, yet his eyes seemed to be working through the logistical calculus of such an enterprise. The forests, empty fields, vast spaces and stony outcrops of the North could be an easy place to hide in good weather. In winter, the rivers may be the only option open to invaders.

"Ser Davos?" Jon moved aside for his Hand to examine the same printed stretch of rocky shore. "Is it possible?"

The older man took a step closer and bent low at the waist over the map. There was no telling how accurate the map was thought to be. "I didn't spend much of my time smugglin' in the north. Too many risks and not enough reward, so I can't say I know the coasts as well as I'd like. But I knew a few men, rogue merchants, slavers and the like, they were accustomed to conducting business with the islands and small towns up here. The North has a few natural harbors, as the height of the land doesn't provide for much coastline. No easy way in or out, especially if you need to keep a job quiet. For small groups of men, under ten or so, they'll have to rely on the rivers to give them an advantage. Too many people coming in and out of port and not enough safe spaces to hide."

"So that limits them to a few places." Meera traced the flow of several rivers under a slim finger. She'd grown up Greywater Watch, the floating keep in the southernmost part of the region which was perpetually surrounded by water. Meera and the other Crannogmen of the Neck had an affinity for the waterways of the North. "They're not getting into the country from the south. My father and our people hold it. The bogs and water there never freezes, even in the coldest winter."

"So that's one concern down," Sansa said brightly as she gestured to the eastern area of the map. "What about The Last River or the Weeping Water?"

"The last letter from the free folk at the Dreadfort didn't mention any missing people or attacks, and they'd be the first ones to tell us if something was wrong," the king supplied. "That leaves Broken Branch river."

Ser Davos tapped the three small branches of the river with his leather gloved hand. "That's an ideal place for a raid. Small, out of the way, and a central gathering place to regroup if something goes wrong. If the Ironborn who attacked the mill were sent here for captives, supplies, or to test our defenses, it's possible they were sent elsewhere as well."

"Something small, quiet, and far enough away without a keep nearby to protect them, the settlements on that river would be ripe for sacking." Arya surmised. A hot flash of urgency rose in her voice. "We need to send a raven to them now."

"It's too late." The dream-like voice of Bran Stark rose from across the room. The pupils of his eyes were still milky white, evidence that the young man in the chair was halfway between the world of the living and another place only he could see. "Four boats went up Broken Branch. One was found by a group of wildling hunters, they didn't leave any Ironborn alive. The others stole young women and girls from their homes, and set a village on fire after they raided it for food. Just now they're making their way to a ship at anchor near Widows Watch."

Gendry felt his stomach drop. He'd grown up on stories of Ironborn raids and the abuses they inflicted on the women they abducted. "So, Lord Hornwood and his men, they don't know what has happened. How many women did they take?"

"Twenty," Bran said dispassionately. "All meant to be thralls and salt wives for the captain and the crew."

There was a stony silence in the room before King Jon asked the pressing question. "Who's the captain?"

There was an eerie silence before the wheelchair man acknowledged the question. "I can't see," The younger Stark replied in a low pitched voice. "There's something there. Something blocking my sight."

Meera held her husband's hand in her own, rubbing heat into the cold flesh in comforting movements. "You're just tired," She reasoned in a soft voice. "You've been up all night. You need to rest."

Bran's handsome face remained expressionless, and at that moment, he looked more like a corpse than a living, breathing person. "I rarely slept up north at the Wall, and I saw everything." His voice was slightly mournful and confused. I saw the past. The present. The dead and the living. I could see through the eyes of birds, dragons, men, and the smallest living creatures. This is different. This is a wall of mist with no shape. Cold. Slippery. Oily. Rock hard. I can't see through it or move it out of my way. It won't let me past. And it's old, older than the three eyed raven's tree in the lands of always winter. It's pushing me away now, moving away from my sight."

Shock and a sense of worry and concern was palpable around the table. Gendry had seen the result of good-brother's visions personally at the wall. Armies of birds diving at staggering undead soldiers. Dragons moving independently of their riders to burn and destroy white walkers. Heard rumors and whispers of how the new incarnation of the Three Eyed Raven saw the past and the present as if he was naturally there. Brandon Stark's council had been sought and granted numerous times during the War at the Wall, and during those war councils, his visions had always spoken truth.

Now, there was a limit to that sight, and it made the Baratheon lord even more anxious about Winterfell's current circumstances. It was a feeling he wasn't alone in sharing, judging from the troubled faces around the table. "We can't just sit here," The words were bitter on Gendry's tongue. "Invaders from who knows where, and the one person who should see unable to find them? What's next?"

"If our Three-Eyed Raven can't find him, maybe some other creatures can." Jon stated firmly as he reached for paper, a quill, and ink from a side table.

Gendry looked on as the King in the North scribbled furiously. "Who would that be?"

"Little birds." Sansa replied with a small smile turning the corners of her mouth.

"Aye," the king nodded as he continued to scratch quill against parchment. "And the southern lord who keeps 'em."

##################################

As Sandor Clegane floated to wakefulness in his warm chamber, he wondered why his chest had suddenly become so heavy. He felt older since winter set in, and parts of him ached more than they should, but he certainly hadn't gained weight in his sleep. It wasn't the weight of a woman, he thought. The women he'd fucked in the past hadn't wanted to stay the night with him. Not without payment anyway. He'd accepted their rejection, and the look of disgust on their faces when he entered the brothels of Kings Landing. But it was a business, and he had coin to spend. Any whore who lavished attention on him was interested in his gold, nothing more.

He'd given up on women so long ago, it felt like another lifetime.

Still, the weight on his chest hiccupped slightly, a light jerk seizing atop his body before another followed suit. Whores didn't weigh so little, and none of them had hiccupped while servicing him that he could recall.

Cracking one heavy eyelid open, Sandor let his eye focus on the blurry figure peering down at him. Clean mousy hair, slightly frizzy, with overly large eyes and a mouth set in a pensive line. Her clothes were clean, and an improvement from the ones she'd worn during the Ironborn raid yesterday. And she was five years old, which explained why she was perched like a little lump on his chest.

Yeah, definitely not a whore.

The troublesome little baggage had been a foundling before she was taken in by Winterfell's miller. Greta, the miller called her, which seemed like a good name. No one knew exactly what she was called because the child never spoke a word. Not to him, not to anyone. While she wasn't causing him harm directly, he couldn't roll over in his sleep without dumping her curious little ass unceremoniously to the ground. Not that he could have prevented it if it happened. But the miller and her other foundling boy might take offense.

"Away with you, girl, and go bother someone else." His tone was harder than he thought it should be, but he'd been sleeping, and his voice was a touch more hoarse now that winter had settled in his lungs.

With eyes wide and pensive, Greta shook her head fiercely and rocked back to sit firmly on her bottom, a sure sign she wasn't going to budge. Sandor sighed openly, and flung an arm over his face, blocking out the light in the room.

Just his luck.

During the War against the Long Night, he'd left the Riverlands and took up the role of sworn shield to Sansa Stark. The little bird he'd known had grown up, transformed from a quivering little creature at the mercy of that stupid cunt king Joffrey Lannister and became the Queen in the North and the Lady of Winterfell. Too many damn titles, if you asked him. Still, the little bird didn't demand much of him save his service, discretion, and the occasional small request. Not that Sandor had asked for much apart from a roof, a bed, and enough food and drink keep him upright.

When his hand wasn't on his sword, the queen tasked him with some heavy lifting for the older people in the keep, and helping to deliver flour from Winterfell's mill. While he didn't hold much with acting the part of a day laborer, it had felt good to work again. The Starks had been without a working getup for so long that when a wayward merchant's daughter with milling experience stumbled into Winterfell with two founding children, the lady of the keep had accepted them right away. There'd been stupid twats bumbling about mouthing how lucky they all were, but not the lady miller. She'd set right to work without complaint or direction.

Clegane had waited to see the place in action before he passed judgement. He'd spent days with the strange woman and the two children in her keeping. Allyse was overly friendly, a mark of having dealt with other merchants her whole life. Pretty in a simple way. She could size you up in a bat of an eye, and knew how to poke and prod for answers. He just ignored her at first, hadn't spoken more than two words to her when he stared working. But even he'd had to admit, she was damn good at her trade. The sapling of a boy, Thomas, had been her weak but ever-present right hand. Greta was the quiet one, silent as a ghost and just as creepy. It didn't make sense for a child of five to be that fucking quiet, but at least she wasn't killing animals. If anything, the damn girl was a silent shadow, content to play with her doll nearby or simply watch him while he worked.

And he welcomed the labor. Each week he visited the mill and became immersed in chopping wood, placing sacks of grain in the wagons, and helping repair parts of the old structure piece by piece. Allyse seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and always made sure there was a hot meal ready whenever he stopped by. She must be a bit soft in the head, he reasoned, as she smiled brightly at him every damn time he saw her. The boy asked more questions than most, and it made him satisfied to see the kid struggle to keep his words to himself and not lose a mouth full of food during midday meal.

There was a rhythm to life in the mill, and it had been reminiscent of the quiet weeks he spent in the camp of Brother Ray. He couldn't think of the greying mercenary turned holy man without offering up some sort of reverence. Brother Ray brought him back from death's doorframe, helped him heal, gave him work to soothe his mind, and yet was too stupid to take up arms when the wrong sort closed in.

"It's never too late to stop robbing people, to stop killing people, and to start helping people." The raggedy septon had said. "What matters, I believe, is that there's something greater than us. And whatever it is, it's got plans for Sandor Clegane."

Plans were the one thing Sandor Clegane never counted on. Plans got dumb people killed or thrown in the black cells. The gods could take their plans and go fuck themselves. Not that they'd ever shown him an ounce of mercy or goodness any of the days in his damn life.

But there was a persistent part of him, one he mostly ignored, which was tired. Like an old dog that had been on the road searching for a place to rest too long, there were times when Sandor Clegane just wanted to fall down asleep and not wake up. But the gods tormented him by sending a five year old girl not smart enough to speak to smother him in his sleep.

If it were the miller in the room on top of him this early in the morning, he'd reevaluate his opinion on the matter. Not that Allyse would be the type to ever warm his bed. She wasn't meant for him, not that anyone was. His anger and his scars kept most women away. But he was older now, less angry. Infinitely so now that his brother was dead.

Burn in hell, you stupid fuck, and keep burning. Burn so when I meet you in hell you're nothing but ash.

Now, it was different. He wasn't a changed man, or even a good man. But without the anger fueling his sword, there was quiet in his head, and a damn lot of quiet in his chest. More than he was used to, really. If he were a better man, he wouldn't think of the curve of Allyse's cheek when a spot of flour dusted it. His eyes wouldn't stray to her slender backside as she stirred the soup in the hearth to keep it from boiling. He wouldn't let the warmth in her voice and the cheery greeting she gave him every damn time touch what was left of his heart.

But it did. And every time he saw Allyse he'd grown used to sharing space with her and the children. He wasn't a feral dog to be domesticated, and he didn't sure as fuck didn't need to play happy families with an unwed woman and two orphaned children.

But part of him did.

If things were different.

But they weren't.

No, it was easier to fall back to business-like exchanges with a willing woman than to think a lovely thing like Allyse would want him at all. Better off not trying. He'd service himself with his hand tonight, he reasoned, thinking of the sweetness and welcoming smile of the woman he worked alongside side each week. Wondering if her skin smelled like when she bathed. Thinking of her wrapped up around him. It was all at once depressing and pathetic, but still, a man had needs and there weren't enough whores in Winterfell to settle them. Not that he would have wanted any of them anyway. All of them were so thin and sick looking, it would be like fucking a skeleton.

And it currently wasn't the best fuckin' time to fantasize about the slender frame, generous tits, and dark hair of Allyse the miller when a child who was close enough to be her daughter was taking up space in his room.

Turning his attention back to the little body slowly suffocating him from above, Sandor barked "If you don't go away now girl, I'll leave you outside in the snow tethered to a tree for the Ironborn to find."

When the child didn't retreat, Sandor flexed his fingers experimentally and began lifting himself slowly off the bed. His objective wasn't to harm the child in any way, but it was important she didn't kill herself from accidently falling on the stone floor.

It took effort to move, and during his slow incline the solemn child remained unchanged. She did manage to take the hint and slide off his chest, and stood cautiously fill an empty spot near the edge of the soft mattress. The kid could still fall, but it wouldn't be far. The shock of the drop would hit her first, but she wouldn't have any long-term damage. When he was fully upright, Clegane and the child regarded each other without judgement or emotion.

"Were you trying to catch my attention over something? Clegane watched the little face scrunch up in anger. "If not that, then what? A man's got to sleep. Trying to choke the life out of him while he's laying down isn't the best thing to do. He tends to think you're trying to kill him."

A soft knock on the door, and already Sandor had an inkling of who was standing behind it. "There's your mother, or whatever she is," He mumbled gruffly. Greta continued to stand silent and still as a statue. Allyse hadn't birthed the child, but she was a mother none the less. A mother with a growing boy and a mute daughter. What a task she'd taken on.

"Sandor?" The soothing tones of the woman floated through the thick door. "Greta's not in bed. Is she hiding in there with you?" Her words weren't accusatory, but the implications of a five year old in his chamber alone wasn't a pleasant one.

"Yeah," he sighed back. "I've got your little piece of baggage here."

Doing his best to keep the child far enough away to not be a creepy fuck, Clegane sidestepped the little girl and opened his chamber door. Allyse entered purposely, her usually neatly plaited hair was loose around her shoulders and the clothes she wore differed greatly from the ones she'd worn yesterday.

Yesterday you saved her life. Pushed past all those other Winterfell shits and pulled her and the girl from their hidey-hole. She clung to you when you took her away from the mill and the Ironborn raiders bleeding on the ground. She cried in your arms. You could have plowed her hard in the snow, taken your fill and she would have let you.

Let him, and regret it later, he thought.

The woman he'd rescued was far from crying now, her slim form was leaning down to gently chastise the child in her care. "Where were you? I woke up and you were gone. You should have waited until I was awake before finding Ser Clegane."

The girl didn't respond, so he wasn't sure if the words spoken by Allyse were for the child's sake or for her own. Taking one of Greta's little hands into her own, Allyse's green eyes met his own. "My apologies if she disturbed you," she began. "None of us could sleep well last night and she disappeared after I nodded off."

If he were any other man, he'd find some way to stand closer to her. Keep her talking. Make up an excuse to lean in and charm his way under her skirts. Without the child around, of course. He wasn't that much of a bastard. But he wasn't that man. He was that old dog content to live his life with what he had and the experience to know not to ask for more.

So he steeled himself against the rush of blood in his manhood, and dodged the apology, not wanting or needing it. "When do you go back to the mill?"

She seemed to flinch at his question, or the implication of returning to a place which no longer had the perception of being safe. And was that disappointment in her eyes? "Tomorrow. There's a cache of corn and wheat that needs grinding and it'll be safer here than in the mill."

"Your choice." The flippant words flew out his mouth before he had a chance to stop them. He saw her eyes shift to the ground. Obviously the words he said wasn't what she'd been expecting. What did she want from him? A promise to stay with her forever and always?

"When the work is done, I'll find a way to grind what we need with a smaller setup here," Allyse said briskly. "There are cities across the Narrow Sea that use tethered animals to move the stones. Perhaps there's a way to build something like that now. But until then, there are people to feed, and they rely on me to grind what we have for bread."

He wanted to offer himself up to her service, but pulled back just in time. She was emotional now, coming down from the mixed emotions women had when their lives were in danger. Best way to steer clear until Allyse was on an even keel before being alone with her again.

Not that you wouldn't mind being alone with her. For a few days at least. In bed, against the wall, on the floor in front of the fire. Those were just the first places which came to mind. It had been ages since he spent himself. He hadn't had a woman since he left King's Landing. Would she mind that the first time was rough? Could she take another round soon after the first?

Fuck.

A second rush of blood flooded his groin, and his brain shut down the sensation. Couldn't work up a cockstand with the girl around.

"Suit yourself." Sandor monotoned, hoping the boredom in his voice would act as a signal for her to take the child and leave. He turned to pick up the discarded shirt he'd worn the day before and layer it over what he was already wearing. "There are a few things I need to check up on with the guards."

Allyse's face crumpled a bit as he felt her quick eyes scan his face. Whatever she was hoping to hear, wasn't going to happen. She seemed to accept it, and held her shoulders a little straighter. "My apologies again. We'll leave you to your thoughts." Without another word, the woman and child were walking out the door. There was a brief backward glance from the two of them, but that lasted only a moment before they were gone, striding through the door and turning the corner quickly as if they disappeared like magic.

And the room seemed less warm because of her absence.

Cutting himself off from that line of unproductive thought, Sandor Clegane donned his daily clothing, placed the sword on his hip, and began moving in the direction of the kitchens. He had to keep his feet moving forward with a purpose, because if he didn't, they'd stride right back to the woman who had just left his room.

Allyse the Miller.

Fuck.

XxX

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!