The Best is Yet to Be
By littlelights
Keeping up with my commitment to complete this story before spring. A lot of good content written, just need to gather the strings to bridge most of this together. I look forward to your reviews, as your feedback is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.
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Chapter 15
Medda hadn't been pleased to see Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, knocking on the door of what had become a pest house. Her pale lips pressed in a thin cold line when he arrived on the doorstep, his eyes bright with concern and pointing to the sacks of food, linens, healing herbs, salt, and casks of small ale being unloaded a safe distance away. She could make out the tall and well-muscled frame of Lord Baratheon sorting the much-needed supplies the best he could, trying to blend in and not bring unneeded attention to himself.
Instead of focusing on what she felt was the most troubling issue, namely the sheer presence of the man who was undoubtably one of King Jon's most trusted advisors, she pressed on with the unrelenting task of caring for the sick and dying in her care.
It was a hellish routine, one which had not allowed her more than a few hours of sleep for over a day.
Even with a lame hand, Ser Davos was well organized, proactive, and appeared surprisingly competent at assisting with her labors. Before the sun set on her second full day of confinement, Medda had managed to wash most of the bed linens by heating melted snow in large cooking pots over the fire, assist all but one of the women to expel their bowels in a chamber bucket, administer fever tonic, and spread a mixture of lavender, chamomile, and blue rose petals on the floor rushes and mats to keep the stench of illness away.
The Onion Knight had bid her to sleep a few hours after the linens had been hung from the rafters to dry in the warm open ceiling air. Medda refused him at first, mostly out of stubbornness and an intense need to prove she could handle all her labors alone. In the hour of the wolf, her body had finally given out, and Medda dozed upright in a chair for a few hours. What services the grey-haired knight had provided escaped her notice during the nighttime slumber. When she woke in the morning, Ser Seaworth had fetched a three-legged cooking pot of barley water from the supply meeting point, and was busy feeding logs to a roaring fire.
After tending to the ailing women, Medda filled the wash tub with a mixture of hot water, stale urine and wood ash, and beat the soiled linens with a small paddle. The repetitive labor of the task made her skin flush hot and cold at the same time. Whistling drafts rolled through the little structure each time Ser Davos attended to tasks in and outside the little house.
And always there was moaning, raspy breathing, and cries for more water. It was the Onion Knight who bid the ill to drink while she hung clean linens to dry, and who held the hand of the third woman as she passed to the Old Gods.
It was all either of them could do to sleep and eat during off moments of the day.
By the end of the first week of isolation, all but two of the needlewomen had died. The younger fought the fever hour upon hour, while and older woman recovered her health slowly. Medda was at the girl's bedside when she expired with a whisper. Then the task of washing and wrapping the body in its burial shroud began. Fingers aching with fatigue and overwork, she managed to wrap the remains tightly. Parched from the efforts, Medda crossed the small room to the water bucket, where she cupped her hands and drank deeply. The water did not extinguish her thirst. It was exhaustion, she thought, as the water sank down and filled her stomach. The second drink nor the third did not seem to settle or sate either her body or brain.
Weak at the knees, Medda slumped to a nearby chair, her head resting on her arms for comfort in a room which was steadily growing warmer. Warm to hot, then hotter still. Then there was nothing but dreamless sleep.
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Winter was harsh in the north. Every child who was born or raised in the roughhewn lands above the Neck were made aware of how quickly life could be snuffed out when darkest stretches of winter spread across the land. Without food, people starved. Without fuel, people froze. Life and death were divided on the thinnest of lines, with only a shallow shift determining the outcome in either direction.
It was his first winter, and the King in the North found himself thinking longingly of summer, when food was plentiful and he had shouldered fewer responsibilities. He was years away from the string of events which had marked his body and mind, granting him a crown and a life he could have never imagined. In his own way, Jon had let go of the wounds dealt with the deaths of Eddard, Robb, Rickon, and Benjen Stark, but the pain of being left behind to live and pick up the pieces of a realm nearly shattered by war and want burrowed into his thoughts from time to time.
Yes, he had sworn to be the king the north had needed. The news of his birthright had brought respect and vindication, but a royal title had never made him feel completely at ease. Returning home to Winterfell after defeating the Night King had been the first step to truly reconciling the past with the present. Sansa had helped brush away the pain of his younger years, the anger and sadness of his childhood, the regret of joining the Night's Watch before Robb rode off to war, the stinging betrayal of death at the hands of his sworn brothers, and the frustrations of ruling a fragile kingdom were bearable with the red-haired beauty at his side.
The road to reconciliation with his formative years had been a burden on his heart and mind when he returned home, empty and grieving for the uncle who had sacrificed himself for the sake of the living. His victorious return as king had caught him off guard. As a member of the Night's Watch, a man only had a small meal, bad ale, and a shared fire to look forward to when whatever skirmish had ended.
The act of progressing through life one day at a time with the people he loved the most had been the balm to heal properly for the first time in his life. The scars from his death were still there, and they always would be. But the regular meals, a warm fire, and love had eased the burdens and pain he'd carried since he left Winterfell.
The progression of time had given him time to reflect on the words he'd spoken on his knees in the hard snow in front of an ancient and unblinking weirwood tree. The wisdom Uncle Benjen had shared with him at the Wall had been true. The lonely and sad fifteen-year-old lad he'd once been was too intent to rise above his bastard birth, and didn't truly understand what his Night's Watch vows had compelled him to give up. A home and his family had rounded his rough edges and made him feel as if he truly belonged. A home. A pack. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.
The arrival of his firstborn had changed his world. Jon sought his son out several times a day, to hoist Robb's little body up in the air and feel the press of baby hair against his cheek. The hour before he and Sansa laid their son down to sleep was spent gazing at that little face in wonder. The boy toddled willingly into his arms and wished to be simply held before drifting into dreams. It pulled at Jon's heart to remember how rarely he'd been held in such a way. His mother, Lyanna Stark had died birthing him, and his father Rhaegar Targaryen had already been slain at the Trident. Eddard Stark may have claimed Jon as his own, and raised him in the safety of Winterfell, but there had always been a longing inside – to feel the strong embrace of a father, and a mother's kiss on his brow before sleep. That longing compelled him to spend the last hours of the day with his son in his arms, pacing the boy around the room, and remembering the voices and faces of loved ones lost to the past.
What would Lyanna Stark think of him now? Would Rhaegar Targaryen have cared for him beyond the promise of a prophesy?
One day his son would hear the stories Old Nan used to tell, of ice spiders and creatures beyond the wall. The rat cook with his curse and the terrible tales of the north had made Jon want to sleep with a candle lit, but anytime he ventured out of his room a frowning Lady Catlin sent him back to bed. His son would never feel the sadness and isolation of shivering in the dark, afraid and alone. Sansa would kiss his cheeks and the two of them would tuck Robb back into bed, and light the small stubby candle inside a wall lantern before wishing him good night.
Robb was his first, and given time, other children would be born, as the babe Sansa currently carried would arrive any day. If fate was kind, he and his wife would sup at the fall harvest surrounded by their children. Years in the Night's Watch had trained him to live fully in the present, observing, strategizing, and stretching resources beyond their scope. It was difficult to imagine those small faces and cheerful chatter of five or six dark and red-haired little ones.
For all the countless hours he had spent learning to wield a sword in defense of those he loved, he was powerless to fight against the dangers his wife would face while bringing their son or daughter into the world. And after spending so much time away from her during their first year of marriage, surely it was understandable they would spend many of their waking and sleeping hours together.
Sansa is healthy and strong, and she recovered from their son's birth quickly. She is capable of doing so again.
Those facts did not dissuade him from leaving her side for more than a few hours at a time.
He was fortunate now to be in the midst of reading grievances sent by raven in the sanctity of his solar. Sansa lay in their bed asleep, one hand curled around roundness of her round belly while he sat alone, reading a letter from House Glover.
"Come to bed, Jon." Sansa's voice was sweet yet muffled from all the furs and coverlets.
His lips twitched into a smile. There were those who said he never smiled, or if he did, it was a rarity. It wasn't that he didn't like to smile, or didn't want to. The act of living had provided more reason to be steadfast and determined rather than good natured and smiling. His people needed security and care, not empty gaiety from a feckless monarch.
His wife made him smile. Not just in their bed but whenever her eyes met his with a twinkle of mischief. Or when he felt her watch him from the walkway overlooking the tiltyard. Ogling, he'd heard the older servants say. He ignored the comments. Life and death had hardened most of his expressions, but Sansa occupied one of the softest places in his heart.
"I'm nearly finished," he replied, reading the contents again for what felt like the third time.
"If the Glovers intend to send more building timber, they will need time and a larger sled." Sansa's voice was straight forward and practical, which only made his smile grow.
"That's the gist of it," Jon acknowledged, picking up a missive from Lord Locke. Breaking open the seal, Jon looked over the contents. He took his time reviewing the parchment. It was a request for aid to repair the walls of his grain stores damaged by a fire.
"Come to bed." It was not a command as much as a compelling invitation to lay down his burdens for the night. It was an overture most men would be foolish to ignore.
"Lord Locke needs a mason to repair the walls of his grain stores." Jon supplied.
"Then he should keep his own mason at home instead of farming the man out to the neighboring lords for coin." Sansa's statement of the obvious only endeared her to him more. "You've done enough today. Come to bed."
Placing the missive aside, the king rose, removed the outer layers of clothing he'd worn for the day, and folded back the coverlet. The bed creaked as it adjusted to his weight. Sansa was a soft ball of warmth beneath the sheets. She slept on her side, pillows supporting her legs. Jon slipped beside her, taking the weight from her back and circling his arm around her waist.
He breathed deeply, trying to reconcile the troubles on his mind. Raiders, illness, and the absence of one of his closest advisors. The world had righted itself, but difficulties remained. Problems, unlike people didn't sleep.
Even this late at night, his second child moved relentlessly within his wife's womb. He placed his hand on the fluttering movements of their babe, marveling at the new life growing inside her. She indulged him, stroking his hair in the quiet darkness of their chamber.
Sansa is healthy and strong. Our babe is healthy and strong.
He held onto the moment, the feeling of closeness and love and impending possibility for a long time. Somehow, when he lest expected it, he slept.
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