The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Read this portion several times over the last few weeks, as it has been a labor of love to finish it. Hoping this update finds you all well, and engaged in the story as it develops.

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

XxX

Chapter 16

The forest was peaceful. The young saplings near the edge of the road mingled with the older, taller pine trees, the smell of the moss and crisp air was just as she remembered it.

This was a familiar trail to the Deepwood Mott. There was always the well beaten road which joined from the Kings Road far to the east, but this was one of the smaller paths to the keep. It was the one Medda used the most when she wanted to escape her mother's disapproving eyes and pick flowers or berries which grew in thick bushes in the clearings. The Forresters had left the clearings open out of respect for the Andels who had used them to cultivate sheep, wooly cows, and wild pigs. Now they were the best places for berry bushes to grow, and the blackberries grew thick and ripe in the summer sun.

It was summer, she reasoned. When did the air smell of green growing things any other time than in the summer?

Medda couldn't remember what day it was, or what errand she was attending to, but surely she would find it when it appeared.

As she stopped to tell time from the angle of the sun in the sky, her ears opened to the sounds in the distance. The river, which her father had ordered fish traps to be laid in the rapids for salmon was just off to the side. When had that happened? It was possible she'd lost track of the hour, but Medda was sure it took more than a few minutes to walk to the river from the path.

The fish trap. She'd check the fish traps for her father. He'd want a second pair of eyes to inspect them. That's what she needed to do. With a determined step, Medda walked away from the path and through forest to the water, a hike which would have put most women out of breath, but to her, it was easy as a wink. She couldn't remember most of the walk to be honest. The sun beat down from the sky, causing her to loosen the top buttons of her dress. She didn't recall it being so warm yesterday.

The river had a crossing point, one which hunters and laborers used when they were crossing north or south through the Mott land. In high summer, it was where all the Forrester children played, splashing about in the cool clear water. Younger children chased fish while the older boys searched for frogs. Medda and her sister would make up stories about the creatures who lived in the deeper parts of the nearby lake.

The heat was very intense, as Medda reached the hill above the crossing point, the forest became silent. No birds. No rustling of animals. All the noise in the world was gone.

That's when really looked at the piece of land across the river. Up until now, her eyes had been focused on keeping her footing on the uneven ground. When she looked ahead to the low point of the river, she saw them.

Her parents. Her brothers and sisters. Her boys. All stood still and dimly lit at the high point on the other shore.

That's when she knew. That's when she remembered. Whatever this place was, it wasn't home. It was close, but the world had changed too much to walk the paths of Deepwood Mott in the same state of mind she did as a young woman.

This was a dream or a delusion, or a second chance. Her family, all of them standing side by side, their clothes in good order waiting for her on solid ground just a river's width away. They were all there. All waiting for her. The heartbreak and loss of the last six years withered away, and everything she had lost had just appeared to her. Whatever it was a dream or a second chance, Medda half-ran and stumbled down the hill, feet pounding into the water. Her feet never slipped on the smooth river stones, but by the time the water reached her knees, she realized the water was too cold. It numbed the skin and made her loose her breath. Chest rattling, Medda tried to control each exhale. It wouldn't do to have her family see her struggle so. This was their river, their lands. No child was afraid of such familiar things. With great heave, she lifted a foot from the rocky river bed and pressed forward, hiding her pains the best she could.

XxX

The stewardess was burning, a fever so hot she might as well have been standing in burning logs. Just that morning, her body seemed to be on the mend, as her breathing had evened out and she appeared to be resting comfortably. It was the calm, one of the women in the house had mentioned with a crooked frown. There was always a calm before the fever finished 'em off.

The space of twenty years ago, Davos still heard that way a Fleabottom woman tutted over the body of one of his wife's siblings, a bright girl who'd had a sunny disposition no matter what shit work she was given to accomplish by her well-to-do master.

Then, as right now, the grumbling in Medda's throat worsened. "Death rattle," the surviving needlewomen shook her head. "Won't be long now."

If he'd been alone, Davos would have thrown something. A table. A chair. Anything. There was a howl in his throat waiting to roar for all of Wintertown to hear. Instead, he groaned, clutching Medda's feverish hand and applying the snow he'd collected to the hottest parts of her face with new purpose. "Don't you dare. Not now. Not when you're the last. I've been where you are, and came out of it. Whatever it is you're seeing, it's not real. You have to choose to come back."

But Brandon Stark had been his guide the day his soul almost left his body. There had been someone to explain to him what was happening, the reality of things he was seeing, and what his choices meant.

Medda had no one. Brandon Stark was lost in whatever dream he'd found. No one from House Forrester was alive to urge her back. And worse, it was beyond Davos' power to save her himself.

There were no prayers to the old gods, or to the seven. Just to whatever powers who watched down on them all to save the woman he'd grown to love. He couldn't lose again. Not now. Not when she was the last one to fall ill.

The Hand of the King sat down roughly into his chair. Eyes leaking from the corners. "Please," he pleaded roughly into Medda's hand. "Please."

XxX

Medda couldn't understand why it was so hard to cross through the water. She was too cold now, the water had sucked the heat from her skin, but now she felt strangely blank. The flow of the rapids came at waist height, easy enough to ford but would require her dress to be laid out in the sun to dry afterward.

Each step was a struggle, as her lungs gasped for air. Almost half way, and she'd be with her family again. All of them would take the high path through the northern ridge of the forest back to the keep. And they would finally all smile at her. Smile and talk in their familiar voices. The hall would boom with all the people.

Medda looked from the water and really looked at her family. They were not encouraging her, or supporting her labors at all. They stood still and statue like, faces neutral as if they'd been cared by an artisan.

Neither approval nor disapproval on her parents faces. Where was the thin gentle smile of her mother? Where was the hearty greeting from her father? Any other day her sons would have been smiling and running to greet her. Her brothers and sisters always began waving when they saw her at a distance. They just stood waiting. It was so strange.

Then she heard it. A small sweet voice from behind on the opposite embankment.

"Mama!" Came the call. At first, Medda did not wish to turn around. Most of her focus was on bringing her unresponsive legs through the water toward the impending shore.

The voice did not stop. "Mama! Mama!"

This was not the timbre of a little boy. The impatient growl of a male child accustomed to getting dirty and playing knights in the courtyard. The voice was different. Intriguing and sweet. Plaintive, yet not outright pleading. In her heart, Medda knew she had to turn around and see who called out to her.

"Mama!"

She was just out of toddlerhood, with all the roundness of baby fat in her cheeks but with the slim legs of a creature confident of walking on her own. Her simple blue frock and little cloak were well stitched. Her hair was transitioning from baby blonde to darker in a shade which reminded her of the children she'd seen in Deepwood Mott.

But this wasn't someone else's child. This was her girl. Her own. Why hadn't she seen her before?

The need to head back to the other direction pounded in her body. Her daughter needed her. The cry wasn't one of alarm or fright, instead it was something important. How could she have left a little girl alone on the bank and not think to bring her across the river as well?

Turning around, it was easier to take the strides she needed to make good time crossing back against the current and walking carefully up the slick rocks onto the shore. Her waterlogged dress threw off her balance, and Medda fell onto a solidly packed dirt embankment. Finally out of the water, Medda found herself breathing easier. The coldness of the water had sapped some of her energy, but the now welcoming heat of the sun would work the aches out of her limbs. While it wouldn't be easy to carry her daughter across the river back to her family, Medda knew she could.

Her daughter eagerly rushed up to Medda's side, throwing herself in to the stewardess's wet arms. "Mama." The girl crooned. The overflowing relief on the child's face caused Medda's heart to melt.

"I'm here, sweetheart." Medda replied, pulling the girl into an embrace and lifting her up so little arms could latch around her neck. The stewardess turned to see the shapes of her family on the other side of the shore. Their blank expressions hadn't changed. The comforting weight of the solid child in her arms seemed a stark contrast to what lay on the other side of the water. Everyone she had ever loved looked like shadows of themselves. Ghosts of the past, not solid in the light of the sun. Although it pained her to see them all on the other side standing together, Medda could see them for what they were.

The long buried dead. Lingering only long enough to entice her the other side of the river. Not out of malice or deceit, but as a reminder of what was waiting for her if she chose to leave now.

Ghosts of the past.

"My mama." The little girl nuzzled her cheek. This was her daughter. All sweetness, warmth that didn't burn, and hair which smelled of frost and winter roses. The mothering instincts, the ones honed from years of love and loss welled up in Medda's chest. Her girl was healthy and alive. Whatever was on the other side of the water were shadows of those who'd she laid in the ground herself.

Medda opened her eyes and looked at the remnants of her past. They were leaving now, walking up the opposing hill now in twos and threes. Her sons held hands as they followed their grandparents. A few at a time, they disappeared into the forest without a backward glance. Their movements were measured and swift, as they made their way through the maze of wide trees and low branches. The trees sighed and the leaves fluttered down in a last farewell.

She'd never see them again, Medda thought poignantly. They were gone and would never walk among the living again. Now their spirts were gone from the earth as well, walking to meet their ancestors and the Old Gods. Their spirits would no longer haunt her waking days. The warmth in her chest intensified she hugged her daughter tighter.

"I couldn't find you." Her daughter's voice stated directly. "I looked and looked."

"I'm glad you did," Medda assured in a way which soothed the small hurts of young children.

"The baby is crying." The words came out matter-of-factly.

That was a surprise. The baby. Of course. How could she have forgotten? "Well, let's go see about that, shall we?" Lifting herself up off the ground, Medda shuttered at the lingering coldness in her legs. It took her a few strides to find her footing, before reaching out a hand to the little one at her side. "Why don't you lead the way?"

The girl knew exactly where she was going. Equal parts happy with being charged with a task, the girl turned away from the river, little legs rushing to the path leading to the eastern road. Rationally there was no shelter to be had for miles, but that did not seem to be a problem to her small guide.

The landscape changed from thick trees and green leaves to a short stone corridor. The change was so abrupt, Medda thought it was a mistake. When had they entered Winterfell? That's where they were, she reasoned. Small carved direwolves were etched in the masonry above the doorways. The warm grey stone banished the cold in her legs and feet. Just as before, this was not a heat which burned but rather made one feel safe and secure.

Her daughter reached for the latch on the largest door at the end of the hall. Standing on tip toe, she wasn't quite able to reach it herself. A few more months, and she might be able. Medda reached down to help release the catch. Together, they pulled the door open onto a well addressed solar. A fire had been lit by the servants, the cheery crackle of wood made the large room cozy and warm. Ample sheep fleece pelts were draped about the collection of sturdy chairs. Next to the nicest of the high back benches sat a serviceable dark wood cradle. Curious, Medda peeked inside, and the occupant, dressed in soft wool garments, began to cry piteously. The babe wasn't more than six moons of age, soft tufts of dark hair on the top of its head gave no indication of gender. Medda felt her heart melt the way one does when looking at a child of their own. With someone so small and precious, why had she been left alone so long?

Medda knew the babe's name. "Annora." It had flowed from her lips as naturally as breathing. "Come here, sweetling. All is well." She fussed with the garments to check for soiling. Finding nothing, Medda carefully lifted the baby from the cradle and enveloped her in a rocking embrace. Not content with the movement, the baby continued to cry, wetness dropping in the creases of her eyes.

"Are you hungry?" It made since she might be, but Medda had not nursed a child in years. Was there a wet nurse or someone around who could help? Then she felt it. Her body responding to her baby's cries. Her breasts felt full and heavy. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, Medda sat heavily down on the fine backed bench. Her dress had changed into fine waistless garment with many seams. Pulling away the center side of her dress, Medda pushed aside the fabric and brought her daughter to nurse. The babe's cries were silenced, replaced by content breathing.

Medda closed her eyes, absorbing the feeling of a child at her breast and the quiet sounds of the room around her. Her older daughter managed to pull herself up onto the bench to sit and lay her head on Medda's side.

If she hadn't been holding the infant so closely, Medda could have pulled the older girl into a comfortable half-embrace. "I found you, Mama."

It was a simple statement of fact from an innocent little voice, but it nearly brought tears to Medda's eyes. "Yes you did, sweet girl." Then it dawned on her. Her daughter had a name. It had been there all the time, just at the tip of her tongue. Medda could say it now that they were safe and secure in Winterfell. "Shireen. My sweet Shireen."

This pleased her oldest girl, who lifted her face to give Medda a darling smile. They snuggled together, the three of them. It was a world away from everything she had experienced earlier in the day. This was where she belonged. Where she was meant to be. A mother to two little ones. Girls in the north were not always a blessing to their families, but to Medda, that didn't matter. Her daughters were precious and so wanted. They would always have her to love and guide them, and prepare them for a future when she would not be standing at their side. But for now, they were small, and they needed her. To nurse them, kiss their hurts, and embroider their garments. The everyday acts of love mothers reserved just for their children.

The latch on the door clicked, and Shireen scampered down from the bench toward the door. Without the little girl's weight on her side, Medda closed up her dress and propped Annora on her shoulder to release the air in the baby's belly.

Her husband was here, Medda thought. He had been seeing to affairs most of the day. But the evening was for her and their daughters.

"Papa!" Shireen chirped happily from the doorway. A rustle of a cloak and the sound of boots on stone echoed from behind.

"Let me take a look at 'cha!" The voice was warm and kind, gently teasing at the same time. Kisses were clearly being showered on her little girl. "How much have you grown today since I left?"

"I don't know, Papa." Shireen giggled. "Mama didn't check today."

"Your poor mother has been overly concerned with you and your sister. I can tell, by how Annora is wrinkling her nose at me."

Medda knew that voice. She heard it every day. At supper, in the king's solar, and in the rough winter breezes of the courtyard. He had a timbre which did not match the thick voices of her countrymen.

Annora released the air she'd been holding, and Medda laid her gently down in her crib. Any other night, Medda would have brought the babe to greet her father. Now, she was swallowing down a rush of emotions.

I know this man. I hold him at arm's length, yet he is here.

Medda's womb trembled. She could feel it now, a slight heaviness where she'd carried her other children. Another babe, very early yet. Not enough for anyone to notice. She would have to stop nursing in a few months when her milk began to lessen.

"Medda, love?" Her husband inquired; his voice flooded with the concern which touched at the soft parts of her heart. In her state of happiness, healing, and hope, Medda wanted to turn and run to him, just as their daughter had done. She wanted to be held close, to kiss his cheek and tell him all was well. She wanted so much to sit next to him at the table, watching him steal glances at Shireen until he scooped her up and allowed their little girl to eat off his plate.

She wanted to listen to the comings and goings of the day, how one lord wanted more grain and how another needed more fish. Or what progress the masons had made rebuilding the broken tower. And she wanted to watch him tell Shireen stories of the adventures he'd had as a younger man, when the warm summer seas had been his road and his little ship his home away from home. Or the first time he saw a dragon flying high above an island castle. And the tale of how he befriended a pirate sea captain.

He wouldn't talk about the fall of the Mad King, how he had lost the tips of his fingers to a high southern lord, or how he had nearly died during the War of the Long Night.

Those were stories for another day. Another time when they were old enough to understand how their father had led a rich and full life far away in the South. For now, there was hearth, home, and family.

That was what she wanted to happen. But her eyes were heavy, and her body began to ache. Medda leaned her head back and breathed deeply. The smell of the room was fading, and she was falling gently downward. It was like falling into slumber, slowly then all at once.

"She's resting better now," an older woman's voice sounded distant. It was probably a servant sent to check the fire. "Never seen anyone come back from that."

"Aye," her husband's voice was closer to her ear. The relief in his voice was obvious. "I'll watch over her for the rest of the night. You go on and get some sleep."

He has a point, Medda mused. I just need to sleep a little more. I'll feel better tomorrow, and when the girls wake up, we will all break our fast together.

She breathed deeply, and slept.

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