The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Most of my writing has taken a backseat to some other projects. I will continue to post as I would really love to finish this story. I always look forward to your reviews, as your feedback really fuels my writing.

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

XxX

Chapter 13

Meera often daydreamed of summer, of the wetwood with its tangled branches, hanging moss, and cool darkness. Not cold, not like the rest of the north. The marshy damp of the Neck was the same in three of the seasons, and in the depths of winter, the water never really froze, or so the Crannogmen claimed. The dozen streams which ran through or drained through the Neck were all shallow, silty, and uncharted. Most folk to the south wouldn't even call the watery veins ebbing through the land a true river. Rivers have banks, currents, and can be counted on stay the same over the years. The channels of the Neck were ever drifting and changing. A narrow strip black boggy land running north to south was the only way to pass through the region in relative safety. King Jaehaerys I Targaryen had ordered great earthworks to be filled and laid through the land, hoping to smooth the roughest part of his ambitious Kings Road. Two centuries of relative neglect later, and the waters of the land seemed to be slowly coaxing the road back to its original state. Beyond the black bog, sandbars, deadfalls, and snares of rotting trees were forbidding and dangerous to most outsiders.

Meera Reed still called it home.

The Neck would always be home, she thought, arms pushing the long wooden pole through the water, pulling her little boat forward through the murky water off the Green Fork. Just as the Starks claimed the how their hot waters hidden within the great grey walls of Winterfell flowed through their veins, Meera felt the same about the green silty rush of the Neck. She knew every inch of these waterways whether low or high.

She had left the horse she had acquired from the Winterfell stables with the small Stark garrison at Moat Cailan. The Dragon Queen to the south had been making good on her promise to rebuild the fortress, hiring a small collection of masons, apprentices, and laborers to begin their work. The garrison lent a hand and kept guard for invaders. Meera had rode through the gate, up to the rather shabby looking stable, and handed her horse off to a young man feeding the animals. The company commander, a competent soldier from House Locke insisted Meera stay the night and continue on her journey on the morrow.

Meera appreciated the offer, however, she stated her intentions to leave right away as to not waste what sun was left. While nearly all the men hired to rebuild the tower shook their heads in disbelief, the commander kept his comments to himself, wishing her a good journey at to send her father their regards.

What the southerners thought were of little concern to Meera. They were probably spinning delusions of her imminent watery demise. Most men shat themselves at the prospect of crossing the Neck, they probably thought why anyone would willingly go straight into the heart of it?

It had been easy enough to traverse the familiar landscape, knowing which paths through the growing marsh were made by her people and which ones were made by animals or the elements. By the time she reached the first floating island, Meera had uncovered a hand carved boat and pole, pushed it into the water and began her journey into the deep water heart of the green wood.

Anyone born in the Neck knew there was more to fear from the water below and the dark wetlands surrounding them than most outsiders could have realized. Legends passed down from her people told the story of how the Children of the Forest had used magic to break Westeros in half after the First Men had invade. They arrived in this land with their loud voices and large axes, clearing away the sacred Weirwood trees and forest. The Children were no match for the tall men in physical combat, so they used other talents the invaders could not harness: magic. As the Children of the Forrest retreated north, their greenseers and magic keepers attempted to break Westeros in half at the Neck. The Children's magic was short of successful, as the sea itself had rushed into the land, flooding the area with salt water, debris, and slithery undersea creatures. Over time, most of the sea retreated, but not all the creatures the flood carried in returned to their native waters.

The deep water animals which had been spawned in the sea adapted to the swampy land in the same manner as the crannogmen. Serpents and lizard lions with teeth like daggers grew long and lean in the brackish water, prowling the ever changing mazes of marshland for stray animals, birds, and outside invaders. Poison posed a potential death to anyone who was unknowing or unfortunate enough to encounter one of the many frogs, snakes, plants, or a well-aimed marshmen's dart. There was always something, whether sharp fanged or squishy soft, which was ready to kill you at any time.

Meera's pole became stuck in a deep hole on the bottom, and her body know to pull up quickly, correct her balance, and try pushing down on another spot further away from the sinking spot. There was a familiar rhythm to pulling her boat forward, keeping a watch for creatures in the trees and under the water below, and feeling when to give and take with the current. The sun quickly sank below the tree line and out of sight. The small torch she had picked up with the boat was quickly lit, and it provided the necessary light needed to navigate the water without alerting the creatures below.

Though, her father had told her stories of the last winter, when the Neck nearly iced over completely and her people had seen more than a few large serpents frozen still and lifeless under the water. Her people had more than likely chipped away at the frozen creature below and brought home food for their people which lasted for several weeks. Winter was milder here in spots, but even some deeper areas of the greenwood would freeze over in time.

Feeling the current in the water pulling left, Meera followed it and pulled hard around a large tree. From the way the boat moved, she reasoned home would be somewhere to the west. Unlike Winterfell, which was an immovable block of ice and rock, Greywater watch moved of its own volition. It never stayed in the same place. Melting in and out of the mists and vegetation like a grey-green island, moving gently with the brackish tide.

Greywater Watch was not the only structure in the greenwater which moved according to the will of the water. Small communities of crannogmen lived on floating raft islands, allowing them to move freely and collect fish and game from a wider area. She could see a few flickering lights from one settlement, the thick thatch of the distant huts sheltering its inhabitants from the outside world. Keeping them safe from anyone who wasn't one of her people.

Meera continued on for a few more hours, breathing in the night air and enjoying the silence. She lived fully in the moment, pushing away the doubts and worries which had laid heavily on her mind since marrying Bran and taking up residence in Winterfell. Meera prided herself on being practical. It was a solid part of her identity. The greenwood was not a place to grow up flighty and stupid. However, it did not prevent one from growing up immune to hurt.

Bleeding after thinking she'd been pregnant for several months had chipped at her confidence, both in marriage and as the future of House Reed. She loved Bran, fully and of her whole heart. Their relations where consistent, and successful from what she could see and feel. The maester had assured them to be patient and they should conceive soon.

This last disappointment hurt, more than it should have if she was honest. They had barely been married a year, and logically they should have a babe soon. But it was a cold comfort, and Meera had watched her husband slide deeper into his visions instead of facing their loss together. Some men wandered off in search of another woman. Her husband, was altogether different. In the innermost part of her heart, Meera feared Bran would choose to slip into the void of his visions and leave her mourning him for the rest of her life. She would have to leave him one day, whether by his death or her own. That was understandable and easier to bear. What haunted her thoughts was her husband, one of her greatest friends and the person who knew her better than anyone, would willingly choose to leave her behind for the freedom only his visions could provide.

If their story ended that way, Meera was sure it would become the type of song men and women would sing about in decades to come. How would the world see them, she wondered, the broken seer and his able-bodied wife?

In the distance, through the swirling air of damp and ice crystals, Meera noticed a light and the familiar outline of her father's keep.

Greywater Watch was as unlike any other home in all of Westeros. Four levels of thick wood, thatch, planking, rope were spread about four floating islands, elevating the keep above the water, vegetation, and debris of the swamp.

While the rest of the county had their rookeries, and sent ravens to and from far away locations, there were none to be found here. Ravens from the other keeps could not find it Greywater Watch, which allowed her people to keep to themselves without much outside interference. Like the Marsh Kings of old, her father kept no maester, no master at arms, and no garrison. Their floating keep hung a single woven banner of a black lizard lion on a grey green field. This was her family's banner, the likeness of which was known by all the crannogmen of the Neck.

Catching her pole to one of the support islands, Meera pulled herself aboard and settled her own little boat in a safe elevated place. There was no one about to receive her, as there would have been in Winterfell. There were eyes all around Greywater Watch, stationed at the watchtowers and boat launches. All of whom were armed with bows, darts, and daggers. There was little doubt they had seen her floating through the darkness, and as she had remained silent, all the inhabitants knew she was one of their own.

The timbers of the keep groaned their welcome as she slipped through one of the slide doors of the hall. The proud room would have been considered small by the standards of most high lords. While not bare of chairs, a table, and a large brazier, it certainly lacked the finery she assumed would be on display in other great houses. Finely carved drinking cups, plates, and shields of the oldest marsh families were on display. The walls were home to an assortment of metal items recovered by the fishermen casting their hooks in the murky waters below. A bronze shield from the First Men. A dagger carrying the Targaryen emblem. Plate mail from a thwarted Ironborn raid. The room was dark, no torches were lit, as it was a waste of rushes and oil to keep them burning, but Meera didn't need them. She knew her way around this keep even in the thick darkness.

Heading up the well-worn wooden stairs to her father's chambers, she was surprised to find it empty. The only other place he might be was on the highest lookout of the keep. Unlike most lords, her father provided the same protection of their home as any man. He was keen to settle disputes and send men to hunt, but he contributed those same tasks as well.

Three more flights of stairs, and the planking gave way to thatched eves. The top of the keep was sturdy but narrow, with only room for three people. When she lifted the top latch, a hand was offered to help her up. Meera knew instantly it was the lord of Greywater Watch.

"Father," Meera breathed him in as Howland pulled her into a strong embrace. His clothing was thicker, compliments of the wool which had been sent as gift from the Queen in the North. He smelled of the winter wind, driftwood smoke, and dry thatch. She hadn't seen him in over a year, not since she had married Brandon in the Godswood of Winterfell. Howland rarely left the Neck, preferring the quiet and familiarity of their home. He'd told Jojen and herself once how as a younger man, he'd had more than his share of faraway journeys. The trek home from Dorne during Robert's Rebellion had nearly taken all the water out of his body, and it would take another lifetime to gain it all back.

To anyone beside the crannogmen, his words would have been taken as a joke. But she and her brother had known, her father had served his lord faithfully and fully, burying friends both high and low born along the way. The world outside had given him deep friendships with the Starks of Winterfell, a few of the Glover heirs, and Martyn Cassel. Most of them died on the battlefield or at the Tower of Joy. Howland returned the Greywater Watch, eager to embrace their unoffical house words 'Hearth, Heart, and Harvest'. He loathed to leave it ever again.

"I saw your boat," Howland brushed the hair from her face and pressed their foreheads together. It was one of the simple acts of affection shared between them when Jojen had been little. "I hoped you would respond to my message."

She broke away, the eagerness to hear his news bubbled over. "The rider from Moat Callin was swift, as was my own mount," Meera assured him, studying the new lines on her father's face, trying to see through the calm façade he projected. "Is everyone well? Is it the Ironborn Raiders from the west?"

"The raiders never strayed to our land." Howland explained, guiding his daughter to the tall weather-worn railing of the lookout. A few of our people saw their ships sail down from the North, probably seeking a safe and secluded port. They spent one night camping near the Kings Road, and a few darts later, they found their ships and packed off."

"Then, why did you send for me?" Meera pressed. "Are you ill, and you need me to come home?"

Howland sighed. He looked tired, Meera observed, and not only from the appearance of foreign invaders. There was something else troubling him. "Are you having greendreams again, like before?"

He seemed hesitant to tell her. "The dreams have never really stopped, even after the War Against the Long Night was won. They were less persistent after you were wed, and I took it as a blessing at first. Now dreams pull at me and I know if I ignore them all of Westeros will be in peril."

This had been the same conversation they'd had when Jojen had dreamed of Brandon Stark and the Three Eyed Raven. The few times her brother had tried to ignore what he had seen in his dreams, the more persistent they became.

"What have you seen in your dreams?" Meera asked, concerned for what her father was keeping hidden. "If not the raiders, then what? Something to do with Bran?"

"Something else," Howland sighed heavily. "A forgotten place our people have avoided since the Neck was flooded. Even before then, I think. Whatever is there, I cannot find it alone, and it is you who needs to see it."

XxX

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