The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Hoping this update finds you all well and engaged in the story as it develops. Also, Happy early St. Patrick's Day!

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

XxX

Chapter 18

Eddard Stark slumbered deeply in the arms of his father. At three days old, the babe nursed and slept in Winterfell's family solar, unaware of the troubles of the world outside. All he knew was care and love of his mother and father, and the occasional short visit from his kin.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, whom the northern folk called King Jon, held his son in his chair by the fire, enraptured by the gentle noises he made in his sleep. Each breath was a reassurance this new Stark was hale and healthy. Sansa dozed in their bed nearby, grateful for a few hours of rest before their soon would require her attention again.

Little Ned yawned, his breath leaving his lungs in a huff. Jon smiled, enjoying the serenity of the moment. It was different from the hours his mother spent laboring to bring him into the world. Jon had been by Sansa's side, holding her in his arms and wiping her brow as she panted and strained. He had seen men die in war, the blood and piss stains of their deaths scattered the battlefields. His wife's childbed was a harsher, more personal affair. She had spent hours in pain, for which there was little relief to be had and no enemy to fight. It was messy, and long, and he understood why men would want to be as far away from their wife's plight as possible. He had missed Robb's birth by several months, and had been passed into his arms clean, handsome, and well-formed. Ned arrived red and squalling into the world. When placed on his mother's chest, the cries abated and mingled with the heaving sobs and joyous tears of the woman who had birthed him. Jon had blinked away the wetness in his eyes, and busied himself with comforting his wife and new son the best he could. The midwife had cut the cord connecting mother to child, washed the newborn in warm scented water, and passed the babe to his father.

"A fine son, yer' Grace." The aged midwife nodded with satisfaction. "Long in the leg. Might be a tall one. Time will tell."

The king held his son close, kissing the crown of his tiny head. The babe carried the fresh smell of milk and his mother. The newness of it all filled his senses and added another patch to sore spots in his chest.

He'd never shared this moment with his father. Rhaegar Targaryen had died at the Trident, miles away and months before his mother had brought him into the world. The Last Dragon had died in battle at the Trident, ruining any chance of reuniting with his new wife and their much-anticipated child. His mother Lyanna Stark died in a river of her own blood, despair and sadness trailing down her cheeks as she expired in her brother's arms.

His uncle Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf, ensured Jon had the upbringing and education of his own children. There was no doubt he'd been protected fiercely by the man he thought was his father, but the love for him had been solemn and often observed in private. Jon doubted his uncle had kissed his head, rocked him for hours, and woke each day eager to hold him. Lady Catelyn Stark would have frowned at such affection and would have spoken plainly of her distain for the boy her husband had brought home with him from the war. Had Lady Stark known the truth of relation, would it have made any difference? It was a question he would never be able to answer.

But he was a bastard boy no longer, and while he'd earned his throne through battle and by earning the trust of his people, some of the sore spots of his childhood were still there. Some men would have found vindication in a crown and a kingdom to rule. For Jon, it had been marriage and fatherhood which had been the healing balm to his heart.

He tried to push away the concerns which lay present and heavy on his mind. These quiet hours, when the keep was just waking to the cold dawn, were reserved for his newborn son. The boy slept on, untroubled by the unknown plague which had burned itself out a short walk away from the keep, or the nameless raiders pillaging the lands nearby. Here was a child born in the depths of winter, a time when parents held their children close and looked out on the snowy land with a worried scowl.

Ser Davos was due to return to his duties in a few days. Gendry had filled the role the best he could, but it had been obvious the older man had been greatly missed. It was a marvel the man had survived his time in the plague house, assisting with the care and nursing of those who had been affected by the disease carried from the south. There had been few survivors, but his wife had been cheered when the news of their Stewardess and her recovery had been confirmed by his good-brother Gendry Baratheon. Both his Hand, the Stewardess, and the remaining goodfolk who had survived had been bathed, fed, and were being tended by Winterfell's maester. The plague houses had been burned, with all their contents, stopping the spread of the disease for good.

When one trouble resolved, there always seemed to be another ready to take its place.

Spring would not arrive for many years, and there would be more days when the duties and responsibilities the crown would eat up most of his time. In a half-hour, the maids and midwives would appear with logs for the hearth and to care for the newly delivered child and his mother. Petitions would need to be heard, defenses examined, scouts to be questioned, and correspondence to be answered.

But for now, there was this moment. His wife and son slumbered in safety under his watchful eye.

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It was good to be outside again, breathing in the cold air and feeling the quiet of winter woods. Her walking companion, Ser Davos, strolled comfortably at her side. They were on a well-worn route taken many previous evenings north to the edge of the Wolfswood to observe the land beyond, before returning to the safety and warmth of the keep. Ser Davos was in a good mood today, as he had been since they had battled the sweating sickness and returned to their duties in Winterfell. Medda's own disposition was one of quiet pensiveness. It was strange, really. She had spent so many long years feeling nothing, to then to suddenly feel her heart lightened was a wholly new experience. Letting lose all the anger, grief, and sadness of the past while she had been ill had made her feel vacant and unsure of herself, and it was a temptation to sink into a routine of pushing everything and everyone away again. But she hadn't. A new lightness in her chest and in her head had prevented her from resorting to her old habits. It was strange to walk through the halls of Winterfell feeling emotionally naked and vulnerable to everyone around. But nothing had happened. All the servants, small folk, royal family, had done nothing to harm her newfound peace. A week had passed, and another.

A month turned, and the compulsion to give into constant activity had lessened, and while she looked forward to the routine of her daily duties, the need to fill every waking moment had vanished. Gone too were the dark thoughts which had appeared in the deepest hours of the night. It had been easier to drift back to sleep when Ser Davos had been by her side, holding her when she had needed comfort. It was unseemly to bring up those circumstances as they walked together in the light of a fading sun. The Hand of the King was a kind man, one who had been unshakingly patient both before and after her illness. If he thought of those moments, he never mentioned it. What had changed was the amount and number of times she had seen him throughout the waking hours. Concerned she was working too hard, fearing she was taking on too much too soon, and taking time to keep their previous habit of walking together before supper.

He wasn't such a mystery now. Maybe it was the time spent in close quarters, but it was easier to let her wariness go and enjoy the nearness of his presence next to hers. Maybe it was because her mind was free to observe the world for what it was instead of pushing everything away, but she was attuned to him now. Not that he carried himself any differently than before. He remained steadfast, kind, and forthright in his honesty. However, she could sense he was exasperated by the lack of news from the southern kingdom. He pressed his lips together pensively while he was deep in thought or weighing the best course of action when settling a dispute. It was natural to stand beside him now, weave her arm together with his at the elbow, and walk unhurriedly through the well-worn paths of this wood.

She reached her arm deeper into his, a subtle gesture she used to signal her need to speak. He turned his head, head cocking to the side. "I was wonderin' what was going on in that head of yours."

"It has been a good day. I would have asked about news from the queen in the south, but I thought it would be a sore topic."

He clasped his free hand over their joined arms. His brow furrowed, as if attempting the find the right words before saying them aloud. "You're right, it's that points a bit sore. But necessary. The Dragon Queen, for all her eyes, ears, and men at her disposal, have found little to help us apart from discovering the red cloth carrying the sweating sickness was from a ship sailing from Sothoryos. Origins yet unknown, as the entire crew died after it reached Kings Landing."

"Not helpful then," she deduced quietly.

"Not as helpful as I'd like. It seems we're back where we started again, but it's just raiders from the Northwest, it's some unknown enemy to the south as well."

Medda tightened her grip on her companion's arm. "It never seems to end." Medda thought aloud. She was tired of war and the instability it created. "The years before the War of the Five Kings had seemed a less complicated and stable place. Every year since seemed a series of constant offence or defense."

Ser Davos nodded his head in agreement, tucking her arm closer to his body, ensuring her hand was sheltered under the warmth of his cloak. "Most folk in the world want peace, to live their lives and raise their children in a golden time when there's no war or famine. Yet here we are, still in the thick of it. No answers to be found, and young Brandon Stark lying unconscious for another moon. I keep reminding myself that it all ends, at some point. Then something else rises in its place. We've seen more trouble than most, but that's due to who we serve."

"And the time in which we're living."

"That too."

They walked in silence for awhile as the sun began its slow descent to the horizon. As usual, he didn't press her for conversation, but she didn't find comfort in the stillness anymore. The warmth of his arm in hers made her bold. "I wanted to say, to tell you, I mean, I thanked you when we left the cottage, but I'm grateful for your confidence," Medda began. She turned to face him squarely. "I never thought I would be able to say anything to anyone about my life. My life before Winterfell."

"I was wondering when we'd talk about that." His voice was gentle and kind. "I didn't want to push you to speak your mind if you felt the need to keep it to yourself."

"It has taken time for me to admit it to myself, but I'm grateful you were there. Had it been anyone else, I wouldn't have been able to say a word. I can't remember feeling relieved or free for a long time. I owe you a great debt, ser."

"You don't owe me anything. I was happy to help. Even happier when you pulled through at the end. Truthfully, I couldn't bring myself to think of what would have happened if you hadn't woken up."

"I didn't know if I would, to be honest. It was so strange." Medda's mind wondered off to the sun dipping lower into the sky for a moment. "You asked if I saw something, and I did. Sometimes when I sleep, I can see it, but when I wake up, it disappears again." She dipped her head down in embarrassment. "I'm sure it sounds mad."

"No, not at all." The knight countered. "I had a dream like that myself once, when I was injured at the Wall during the Night King's war. A few days when I slept, I could see it all with such clarity. Now, I just remember the feeling of it. What it meant to me, and from time to time I think I found it."

Medda met his gaze, her voice flexing with soft anguish. "How do you know when you've found it? Or any of it, when you can't remember it?"

"Because I feel it when I'm beside you." Ser Davos fired back quickly. "I know it's real, because when you're close to me like this or you look at me from across a room, the world rights itself in a way it hasn't for a very long time."

The thin cold air hung between them. This was it, he thought. The slow look a man takes before he falls to the ground from a long fall.

"Marry me." The words were rushed and almost guttural.

She was surprised and half shocked. "What?"

His words were slower and focused. "I'm asking you to marry me."

"Marry you?" She was lightheaded. The moment didn't seem quite real.

He rushed to explain himself before she voiced an objection. "Now, I know I'm a bad bet. I'm not a young man. I've got a lame knee and part of a hand missing. Everything else still works, so that should be a relief on your mind. I'm well into the autumn of life with enough years between us to be your much older brother." He ducked his head as her mouth pushed upward with a smile. "I'm not asking you to be my wife because I have some grand ambitions or want to lay the foundations of a great house. I'm a crabber's son from Flea Bottom and was never meant to rise up in the world. By some strange series of events, I was knighted, but I'm not counting that I'll have any great wealth or title to offer you. The land I was awarded by King Stannis is long gone, and I'm too far away to push to get them back."

"I know," Medda said simply, wishing she could brush his worries and concerns for him as easily as he had for her.

The knight continued quickly, holding her hands in hers, holding them close together so he could deliver the words which had been sitting on his chest for months. "Now, I know your first husband was unfaithful to you. He shouldn't have been, which was his fault, not yours. I'll have no other but you, and I'll swear to it."

"You don't have to swear—" Medda protested, but Ser Davos pressed ahead.

"I want to marry you because I don't want to spend another day or night without you beside me." The aged knight's words were rushed. "That came off a bit more romantic than I thought it would, to be honest. You don't have to say anything now, just think on it for-…"

"Do you want children?" Medda started, an urgent pang in her voice.

Davos felt his breath escape his chest. He was afraid of answering for fear it would scare her away. They had been more truthful with each other since the cottage, and while he knew his answer might drive them apart, he felt it was for the best he should answer her question in a forthright manner. "I haven't given much thought to it, honestly. Matthos was a man grown when he was taken from me. Seems like a lifetime ago. I don't know if whatever gods are left in the world would see fit to give me another chance to raise more. I was away from home too long to see any more sons or daughters brought into the world. But if by some act of grace you're willing, then yes. I'm not afraid to try, as long as any child of mine has you for a mother."

Medda nodded and said, "I'm not afraid to try again too. The midwife who took care of me in Borrowtown said I healed well after what happened-," the words stuttered slightly, then with renewed strength they poured from her lips slowly and concisely, as if she was reciting a passage of text from rote memory. "When the Ironborn raided our village."

She could almost see the figure in her dream now. The face of a sweet little girl and a content infant. Time stretched for moment, giving her time to find the the words she needed to share the hopes and desires she'd sheltered in her heart.

"I was loved by my parents, brothers, and sisters. But they're all gone now. I'm all that's left. My boys are at peace with the Old Gods. Raising children with you doesn't mean I'd be erasing them from my heart. All those who are lost to me, they would understand. When I look to the years ahead, I want to spend them surrounded by a family of my own."

Davos brushed a fleck of snow from her cheek, smiling gently to dispel the anxiety in her eyes. "If fate is kind, we'll have them. I'm intent on being a good husband to you and I'm of the opinion that men and women should enjoy themselves when they're abed, whether they're trying to make a babe or not."

Medda sucked in a breath, her eyes cast downward. It was the last wall between them, not knowing if she would ever feel ready to lay abed with a man again. The Ironborn had taken by force what her dead husband had callously discarded. She might have been able to lay the burdens of her heart into his keeping while shrouded in the darkness of a crofter's house, but it was altogether a different thing to work up the courage to tie oneself physically to another.

The stillness of the winter evening seemed deafening in his ears, as if all the sounds in the world had been swallowed up by the vastness of the land itself. Feeling a bit lost, Davos reached his hands under each of her elbows, bringing her closer in the fading light of the day. "Will you consider me, then?"

He was worth considering, she thought. If Medda was a different person in an altogether different time, her father would have been jubilant over such a match. The world had changed, and she had been transformed by it. A few years ago, she'd been a widow, a bruised survivor of an Ironborn raid, who had buried her children with her own two hands. Now she was standing in one of the queen's old dresses with a threadbare hem, fielding a proposal from the Hand of the King. But she wasn't considering him for because of his status or his position, or the advantages of politics. He was giving her a choice. Not forcing. Not pressuring. Her decision. Her consideration. The first time she could chose whom and what she wanted.

And he loved her. She felt it. More fragments of the dream she'd seen in the cottage floated momentarily to the surface. It was heady and made her knees a little weak.

"I've considered," Medda replied, her fingers gripping the roughness of his shirt sleeve. "I will."

"You'll marry me?" He sounded astonished by her answer.

"Yes." She stated simply, her face uplifting into a smile as his own expression transformed into a wide grin. Medda relaxed as he pulled her into a close embrace. It felt good to be enfolded in his arms again. The warmth of his body holding hers made the winter less cold and bitter. They fit together naturally, two whole people melding into a shape which complimented her slightness to his sturdy build. Craving closeness, Medda brushed her face against his.

Davos' hold tightened to where their bodies were flushed against each other. She'd always known he was a strong and fit man, even when he appeared older than most of the other men in Winterfell. To be held like a lover would with a sweetheart, made her heart skip a beat.

The Onion Knight pressed his forehead to hers, his expression one of elation and relief. "I promise ya, you'll have no complaints with me in bed or at board," Davos began, his words flooding out in a happy collection of thoughts. "I know you keep the Old Gods, and we can marry at the Heart Tree. Two months from now? Three?"

"A few weeks, no more." Medda smiled when he nuzzled his nose to hers.

"I've a bit of coin set aside, if you want or need anything before we wed."

Medda shook her head. "I don't need anything. We will plan everything out together when we return to Winterfell."

"Together."

"Together," she acknowledged.

And in the final red glow of the northern sky, he kissed her slowly and sweetly, and the only witnesses to their joy were the silent trees and the gentle falling snow.

XxX

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