The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Two chapters in one month? HELL YES! The last chapter was absolutely massive, and while this one is scaled down a bit, it should be pretty satisfying. Getting a story update notification is just awesome, so I hope this made your day! Don't forget to leave a review, as I really enjoy reading them. More updates next month!

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

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Chapter 9

A feeling of unease stalked the higgledy-peg lanes of Wintertown following the Ironborn raid on Winterfell's mill. A month following the disturbance, young and old alike stayed close to their fires and prayed to the Old Gods for a swift return of spring. Hunting parties left the keep, and if small game was found it was shared by all with thanks to those who had brought their winter bounty back from the wilderness. The snow and cold, which blew across the land in long blustering heaves, abated for several hours each day, and at night, those with warm beds slept peacefully without the sounds of winter shrieking in their ears, adding to their fears of what else could be stalking them outside.

The Stewardess of Winterfell had little time for such thoughts.

While her primary responsibilities continued to be overseeing the care and comfort of the royal family in Winterfell, her duties extended to those housed in the thin walls and shelters in Winter Town. Communal food preparation required supervision, as well as a close inspection of available perishable supplies in granaries, cellars, and storage closets throughout the castle. There was always a shortage of something, whether it was food, drink, clothing, candles, or firewood. The pressure to provide all those material needs, as well as seeing to the health and happiness of everyone under her purview, made simple acts such as sleeping and pleasant conversation difficult to enjoy.

Not everyone was safe and ensconced within the heated walls of Winterfell, and while the northern people were fiercely independent and proud of their ability to survive the winter, Medda silently wondered if any of the previous generations had battled the undead at the Wall, faced Ironborn raids, and kept faith with a Dragon Queen, all while fearing for their next meal.

Probably not. The dead had a way of keeping their own secrets.

The heart-pounding experience which occurred on a late afternoon walk with the Hand of The King was just the beginning of a new unknown terror lurking in the winter landscape. The somewhat lulling sense of calm she'd felt since the end of the war against the undead was gone, leaving everyone, including herself, worried and at times on edge.

Against her better judgement, she found herself spending more communal meals with Ser Davos, usually in the company of rough dignitaries making their way to or from Winterfell. It was a strange collection of lords from smaller houses, traders, and one evening, five knights from the Vale of Arryn. On those evenings, the lessons she'd learned at her father's table ensured she was familiar with not only the places they'd discussed, but also the shameful rise in prices for simple good such as fish and grain.

With Queen Sansa close to delivering her babe, and the king involved with their current crisis as well as training the men in their garrison, it had fallen to Ser Davos and Medda to entertain visitors. She had been curious why the king's sister Lady Arya and goodbrother Lord Gendry Baratheon had not stepped in to personally meet dignitaries. She'd brought up the matter with the queen twice, only for the Lady of Winterfell to offer an apologetic smile.

"Arya and Gendry are occupied with other matters," Sansa stated, her eyes were focused on sewing a straight seam for a finely dyed baby frock. "And they're not used to entertaining guests. Arya is wild, and she hasn't the patience for it. Gendry is more comfortable with a hammer in his hand than a fork. Not that he will be able to ignore host responsibilities forever. It's better to have you and Ser Davos seeing to the comfort of our guests. At least for now."

While Medda hadn't been entirely comfortable with taking on such personal duties, the role of hostess had been so far, well received and appreciated. These exchanges were relatively straightforward. Men tended to watch their language and keep their guest rites in mind when a woman was present. Their behavior during the duration of their stay did not cause an undue burden on the occupants of the keep, nor in the timber houses of Wintertown.

The biggest surprise had been news of a contingent of smugglers turned merchants arriving from across the Narrow Sea. Tyrion Lannister had been tasked with organizing a supply of goods for the people of the North. A promise of support Queen Daenerys had made to the people who had sacrificed much during the war against the undead. More ships were being sent to Eastwatch-by-theSea to fortify the Night's Watch.

The first of the supply convoys paraded into Winterfell with a series of hired carts from White Harbor, his voice loud and skin darker than those of the Unsullied she'd seen after the war. The leader at the head of the caravan did not resemble a merchant in any conventional sense. The clothes he wore were exotic, and his personality, presence, and accent were unlike anything Medda had ever laid eyes on before.

Ser Davos, the Hand of the King, stood strong and quietly next to her. He seemed unphased by the strange visitor and his odd assortment of goods. The grey courtyard, lined with snow and reed torches was filling with stable boys and curious onlookers, transformed into the makings of a traveling market. Above the din of strange voices, a loud and choppy accent rose above the activity.

"Davos the smuggler!" The muscular black man wearing an odd array of furs and skins dismounted from his horse. He was stocky, but he moved with a commanding presence which made him appear light on his feet. "You're too far from sea, my friend. Have your balls frozen off yet?"

Ser Davos didn't appear to take the last statement to heart, from the brief look he shared with Medda. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a smile as he replied jovially, "Not yet. And what do we owe the pleasure of a pirate king making his way to Winterfell?"

Medda followed the Hand's lead as they walked to greet their guest. There was a rough affection in their welcome, one she recognized as equally parts business, respect, and whatever shared experiences known by the men themselves. If the words of the king's advisor held any weight, Medda believed the charismatic visitor had some tie to piracy. He looked the part, and wore the title unapologetically.

"Mistress Medda," Ser Davos intoned brightly, "This is Captain Salladhor Saan of Lys."

In her role as steward, Medda offered her hand to their guest. In the past, men could be expected to observe one of several customs – arm clasp, a shake, or a cursory peck to the top of her hand. With great flourish, their guest bowed over her outstretched limb and placed three suave kisses to her wrist, hand and fingers.

It was the strangest greeting she'd ever received. The man had all the confidence of the world in his eyes and in his manner when he rose to greet her. A broad smile formed on his face, an expression not seen much in Winterfell since their recent troubles.

"It is a pleasure to meet a beautiful lady such as yourself," His words were smooth and he looked at that moment made him look like a foreign courtier than a pirate from songs and stories. "I have wondered my friend, how a man like you would have such a beautiful wife. A salty face like yours doesn't deserve a woman."

The visitor's words and insinuation of a husband didn't hurt the way Medda had expected. In the past, whenever someone had mentioned the long-dead Hamma, the words had always felt like a knife in her chest. Their marriage had been an unhappy arrangement, as he had refused to put aside his long-time lover after his marriage vows were spoken. There had been pain from the whispers and gossip which had continued after Hamma's death. Although not as frequent, they'd fallowed her here to Winterfell.

The insinuation of marriage between herself and Ser Davos solicited a different response. A flash of embarrassment, and to her surprise, a blush of heat to her cheeks. They had moved beyond acquaintances, and even past the point where they were considered cohorts, she thought. The time spent together in the wake of the Ironborn attack had created a connection of what most people would have considered a new friendship.

Liar. Her mind buzzed.

The spark which had ignited that day at the mill had grown into something which heightened her senses when they shared the same space. There were times she felt like she'd conjured him out of thin air, as if her thoughts had willed him to appear in a room as if she had called for him out loud. He was always there, a kind smile on his face and something akin to adoration in his eyes. There was a humming under her skin which intensified when they stood side by side or sat together while entertaining a guest. Her hands sought him out as if powered by their own will. Small things. Small touches. It wasn't sane, and it certainly wasn't rational.

She certainly wouldn't have admitted it, but her need for him was growing nevertheless.

Salladhor Saan of Lys may have misinterpreted the connection between herself and the Hand of the King, but the thought of it spread prickles of heat in her chest. The pirate's implication made her cheeks color as she spared an amused glance at the knight by her side.

Ser Davos tactfully cleared his throat and tactfully replied, "She's the Stewardess of Winterfell." There wasn't anger in his words, but took the same polite respect he'd adapted during their visits with prior visitors.

"I see to the comfort of the royal family and the occupants of this keep," Medda intoned smoothly. "As well as dignitaries and honored guests." She allowed a small smile to curve her lips. "And occasionally, a visiting pirate captain."

Salladhor Saan's crack of laughter echoed through the yard. "If all stewardesses in Westeros have half your beauty and way with words, I must find one for my ship."

"High praise, coming from you," The grey knight replied, gifting Medda a look of relief for side stepping a social misstep on behalf of his friend. "Winterfell is the only place with a stewardess, if I recall. Now, please come in and warm yourself by the fire. Supper is in the Great Hall."

"I'll see to the supplies which have arrived," Medda nodded to their guest. Captain Saan made a great show of kissing her hand again, which she gracefully extracted. "We have a lad ready to escort you to the bath house and see you settled in your chambers. I'm sure the two of you have much to discuss."

She spared a small smile to Ser Davos, and could easily tell he was looking forward to catching up with his friend. She motioned to a few of the maids nearby, both carrying an account tablet to join her. "I'll see you inside shortly." Her words were meant for both of them, but it was Davos who caught her eye the longest. That knowing look, the one which had grown strong since that day in the courtyard, warmed her. Yes, she wanted to delegate the lists and accounts to her assistants and use their guest as an excuse to spend a few pleasant hours indoors by the knight's side.

But there were tasks which needed to be done first. Duty before everything else, and part of her chafed against it now where the hours spent working alone before did not fortify her like they had before. The courtyard servants had already assembled to unload the cargo from each wagon, and as Medda reached the first one, she turned for one last look at Winterfell's door.

The pirate captain uttered something to Ser Davos as they turned to go inside, a compliment which was carried up into the bailey with a cold gust. Whatever pleasantries the two men shared was between the two of them. The caravan of wagons and riders needed care and attention, and the goods carried with them would need to be carefully counted and stored in the keep for future use. Squaring her shoulders to the assembled servants, Medda began delegating tasks and overseeing the unloading of what she hoped would be enough supplies to last for a succession of cold months ahead.

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A long table in Winterfell's Great Hall was situated close to the hearth, more for privacy than the need for warmth. The keep's walls radiated heat from the ancient hot water springs which ran through the stone like veins under thick skin. The table was set with bread, tankards, and drink. The few servants around to attend the meal stayed in the kitchen to give the Hand of the King and his guest time to converse alone.

"So, how is it you served one king, and now another?" Salladhor Saan asked with a sly smile as Ser Davos poured the two tankards of dark northern ale. "Stannis Baratheon copped off your fingers and you fell in love with him. Did this king take the other ones to make you fall in love with him too?"

Salladhor Saan had a talent for making people laugh at their own misfortunes while pointing out the folly of whatever decisions had put them there in the first place. He was a smart one, this pirate lord. Always ready to cut a man to the quick if it gave him an advantage, or if it sliced through civilized pleasantries to speak frankly on matters of business. Befriending the pirate lord for neigh thirty years, gave Davos the freedom to accept the roughness of Salladhor's words and not take them personally.

"Stannis was led astray, and he paid the price for it." Davos replied, passing the mug of ale to his friend.

"The red woman?" Salladhor's clipped accent oozed the type of venom reserved only for those who deserved a slow death. "I heard she led Stannis into a winter storm which killed his men, and she burned his daughter alive to appease his red god."

"I wasn't there for that," The words came out sharper than he meant. Salladhor's eyes didn't judge, and his face remained impassive. Placing his tankard on the table, Davos sighed. "He sent me away to fetch for reinforcements, and when I returned, he was dead. As were most of his men, and his wife and daughter. All gone."

"Which is how you came to serve this new king of yours. The dragon king Jaehaerys." Salladhor raised his tankard in conciliation, and Davos followed suit, clinking the wood together.

"The northerners call him King Jon, as it the name he was raised with. He's a good man. A good king."

"Better than Stannis? You called him the one true king."

"And Stannis was, for all we knew at the time." Davos countered. "He was Robert Baratheon's brother, and he would have been a fair and just ruler if he had won the throne."

Salladhor's face crumpled at the taste of northern ale. He wasn't used to it, and it showed in the way his lips puckered in distaste. "Westeros is a strange place, my friend. Five kings fighting for an iron chair, and none of them are standing today. All of them were in a hurry to die. Now a dragon queen rules the lands in the south. I see her children flying around Dragonstone. But I find it odd she does not rule here."

"The North is its own kingdom now," Davos supplied. "The lords declared for King Jon, and his aunt Queen Daenerys did not press him to step down. The two of them are family, and they worked together to save Westeros. They knew fighting each other would be an insult to memory the people who fought the Night King up at the wall."

"I have heard some men say the dead rose and walked the earth." Salladhor San seemed to swallow his dislike of the ale by drinking heavily and smacking his lips. "I have not seen this for myself, so I cannot believe their stories."

A cold look passed between them. Salladhor pressing for details and Davos unable to explain what he knew. Where did one tell a sea captain what terrors had been seen when everything had gone to shit?

"The stories were true." The grey knight replied grimly. "I was there. I don't know what you heard, but an undead army marched south toward the living, and they would have succeeded, if it hadn't been for the men and women who fought against them."

"Was your lady one of them?" The pirate asked casually. "The stewardess? I did not see a sword at her hip, though, I have heard northern women are fierce. I do not think you would have let her see such things."

His friend's remark well-timed and meant to prod Davos into revealing more than he was comfortable discussing. What the pirate wanted to know was none of his business. Besides, how could Davos be expected to explain how the lady in question had burrowed into his heart when he wasn't paying attention? A clasp of hands and a look amid a sea of chaos was all it had taken to send him over the edge. His own carefully constructed set of social rules burned completely to the ground. What words could he use to describe how light of heart she made him when she sat beside him, sharing meals and exchanging knowing smiles? Words were still difficult at times between them, but the small things had filled the void when speech abandoned them. And how all of it, his attraction to her and her seemingly reciprocal actions toward him were becoming dangerous to them both.

How she used a gentle touch of her hand on his arm to ask if wanted more ale while everyone at the table was talking. He didn't really need to nod, she just knew when he needed more. It pleased him. She'd stumbled on the snowy path through Wintertown a few times, and he'd used them as an excuse to hold her hand for longer than what most would find acceptable. He would then tuck her arm into his as if they were on a private stroll, ensuring his cloak protect any of her exposed skin from the elements. It felt natural to have her next to him, talking quietly side by side in the snow. It filled his chest with a happy contentment he hadn't known in years, but he didn't want to lose her by acting on those feelings. Her unspoken past was between them, and by pressing her now he would never know she wanted him as a man or joined with him out of loyalty to their queen.

Years of smuggling and honest business had made Salladhor Saan his friend. Maybe he could find the words to describe his tenuous attachment to Medda after thirty years more.

Davos delayed his response with a gulp of ale as Salladhor waited patiently. Their subtle war of wills broke when the onion knight replied quietly. "She's not my lady. And we've all seen enough of war."

"Your wife is dead now, no?" The pirate exclaimed. When Davos nodded shortly, his friend pressed on, waving away the minutia of grief and loss. "I saw the way she looked at you, this stewardess of yours. I have had many women, and I know what they mean when they look at a man the way she does at you. She is beautiful. You should marry her. Do you know, I have taken a fifth wife now?"

"A fifth?" Davos sputtered.

"Yes, my friend. The daughter of one of the wise masters from Tyrosh who owed me more than he could repay. Before the dragon queen, he and his family would have sold everything they owned before being sold themselves into slavery. Now, men sell their daughters and sons into marriages to save their own necks. That man is still in my debt, so maybe I will let him row for the slowest ship in my fleet."

"A fifth wife. I'm sorry I missed the wedding." Each of Saan's four other marriages had been jovial affairs, and Davos had been invited to all of them.

"I wanted to invite you, though I did not think an honest smuggler would find a way to survive so far from the sea. Without your boats out on the waves I had no way to find you. Then I hear the war in Westeros is over, and I think to myself, 'I wonder if he is alive?' I would have thought the red woman burned you as an offering to her god. But no, Ser Davos Seaworth is in the North in Winterfell, with the dragon king who was raised by wolves. And now my friend is the second most powerful man in the coldest of kingdoms."

Davos shook his head. "If that's what most people think, they're sorely mistaken. King Jon rules the North with his wife the queen as equals. They make their own decisions, the realm is fortunate that the two of them are just and open to reason. I'm just the one to see their honorable and just work is done."

The shuffling of footsteps from the corridor signaled the arrival of the servants, serving soup and an apple tart for the table. One of the youngest women brought a pitcher, and placed it gently next to the pirate captain. "The mistress sent for wine, as your guest may not be accustomed to ale, m'lord."

"That was very kind of her, I'll thank her myself when I see her." Davos replied kindly. "I'll see to Captain Saan myself, so all of you can have your supper."

There were smiles from the servants, which didn't go unnoticed by pirate lord. Taking up the pitcher of wine and a new tankard, Salladhor poured the rich red liquid into his mug and hoisted it up in the air. "To the beautiful stewardess of Winterfell, who makes a captain feel welcome so far from shore." Ser Davos brought his own mug up, and chucked when the pirate guzzled half the tankard in four large gulps.

"Ah!" He exclaimed. "Good wine sent by a good woman. If you do not marry her, my friend, than I shall marry her myself. Take her to sea to be my stewardess and mistress of thirty-two ships. Though, I do not think you would like me much after that."

Davos was accustomed to Salladhor's unique talent for bullshit and boasts. "I'm not one to threaten a pirate lord," the knight replied. "You're in the North now, my friend, and the stewardess is surrounded by wolves and dragons. You wouldn't stand a chance if you tried to take her away."

"And she has a knight of onions by her side as well, no?" Saan laughed, slicing bread haphazardly and dumping a thick chunk in his bowl. "You should fuck her and marry her, and that way, she will be yours and no one else's. I would stay for that. I would stay and drink a toast at your wedding, just so I could tell every captain on the Narrow Sea how I drank to the health of an honest smuggler and his beautiful wife. How he grew fat and rich away from the sea, and how he was able to do what few of us can do. "

"What's that?" Davos asked cautiously.

"Grow old." Salladhor replied, and the two men laughed.

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