Gerris took a ginger sip of his tea, hands wrapped around the mug to absorb every bit of warmth. It was a frigid day. A biting wet cold where heavy grey clouds loomed, but there was no snow. Just intermittent spates of sleet that slicked the roads in a sheen of ice. On such a day, few parishioners attended service. Far fewer mourners visited the small kirkyard. The tea slid warm down his throat, freshened with lemon. Boredom set in as the cold miserable day waned into night. Darkness crept in, only the wavering shelves of candles and one lone lamp kept it at bay. Sleet pinged off the windows. The quiet wasn’t grating to him. Peace could be found in solitude. And soon, he could rest. His relief would be here in the morning, Septon Walder. As fiery and energetic as his red hair would suggest. Ah, the zeal of youth.
Gerris checked his watch and sighed. Time for rounds again. He heaved up from the small table outside the sanctuary of the sept, donned his coat, scarf, gloves. The wind screamed through the parish as he opened the door. He limped through the small kirkyard, eyes watering into the wind. The air was a cold knife that sliced through his clothing to chill his skin. A miserable day. The rows of tombstones gleamed in the light of Gerris’ torch. He touched the names with gloved fingers and murmured prayers under his breath as he trudged, trying not to slip on sleet-slick grass. Glover, Nott, Fletcher, Cerwyn, Smith, Snow.
“Good evening, Maester,” a cool feminine voice said. Gerris cursed, pulling up short. He slipped on the wet grass and, flailing, he lost his torch. He braced himself for the hard fall when he was caught by strong, sure hands.
“Easy!” in the rain-spattered light of his torch, Gerris found himself eye to eye with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He found his feet, straightening his clothes to hide his embarrassment.
“Pardon me, miss. Pardon me,” he muttered.
“Apologies, Maester, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The woman’s brow puckered in concern. She had been in the kirkyard for some time, he now realized, judging by how soaked her clothing was. The ball cap, down jacket, jeans and boots held up all right, but still . . . Gerris glanced at the stone she stood vigil by. The date on the gravestone would suggest she was his granddaughter or caregiver. Then in the oblique light of the torch, he glimpsed her eyes. Gerris had seen that look in every widow or widower’s eyes. They looked . . . hollow. As if some vital part had been scraped out of them. Who was he to judge? Age differences didn’t matter when it came to grief.
“It’s a miserable night to be out, miss. Come on back to the sept, I’ll fix you some coffee. Warm you up,” he said.
“Very well. Thank you, Maester,” she said.
“Gerris, please.”
“Gerris, my name is Daenerys.”
“A pleasure, Daenerys.”
The walk back was a quiet one. The howling wind and slick, uncertain footing made certain of that. The warm, dry air of the sept embraced them, and he breathed a small sigh of relief.
“Let me fetch you that coffee,” Gerris said, pouring a cup into his only mug. Daenerys shed her wet hat and shook a mane of silver-blond hair loose. The water made her hair glitter like she was one the Mother’s angels. Gods, she was lovely.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the cup. Gerris had learned in his long years of service that silence was the most effective tool for communication. Often, people just needed to order their thoughts, or, if they were anxious, they hurried to fill the silence and gave room to work on what they needed to. Daenerys had a self-contained air—almost regal—though she wore her grief as heavily as her sodden coat.
“I have a space heater in here. You can hang your coat, see if we can dry it a bit,” he said, grateful for the warbling heater returning some circulation to his old bones. He took his ease in his chair, kneading his thigh to ease the ache of an old injury. He poured a coffee for himself into a disposable water cup from the water cooler. The heat seared his palm, but he was grateful for it after the icy bluster outside.
“You are very kind, thank you,” Daenerys said, shrugging her coat off and draping it over Gerris’s desk chair. The fluid way she moved was like a dance all its own and Gerris admired her as one would admire a marble statue of a goddess. Daenerys idly stroked the barrier before the altar and its shelves of lit candles. The tinted glasses cast a rainbow of color over her face. Incense filled the air with its sweetness.
“Tell me about him.” The words hurt her. He saw her flinch and hurried to assuage his hasty words.
“You don’t have to, but sometimes it helps to talk. About the good and the bad,” Gerris said. Daenerys took a long drink of her coffee. She leveled him with steely gaze and Gerris wondered at the amethyst hue of her eyes. Her scrutiny was no mean thing, Gerris found himself straightening his posture like he was back in seminary.
“You’ve dedicated your life to your faith. You must believe in it with your whole heart,” she said. There’s a loaded statement! Gerris chose his words with care, aware that if he erred, he would spook her. Perhaps sour her questionings towards matters of faith forever. He wasn’t a man to take such conversations lightly.
“In my youth, I would have answered yes. Without question.” Daenerys’ eyes narrowed to violet slits. Something of her poise and stillness reminded him of a direwolf in the snow.
“And now?” she pressed. Gerris took a long draught of his coffee, relishing the rich, bitter taste. Clearing his throat, he gestured to the unoccupied chair for her to sit. Daenerys remained where she stood.
“As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown to understand that faith is simply one of many frameworks used make sense of the universe. Seven heavens, seven hells. Nuance matters. Sincerity matters, in my opinion.” The diplomatic words seemed to mollify her. Some of the tension bled from her frame.
“I . . . wherever he is, I want to go there too. Is . . . is that possible?” the words held the vulnerability of a child and Gerris’ throat closed a little. She looked so forlorn and grief-stricken. A rudderless ship in the endless dark ocean with no hope of shore.
“Of course,” Gerris said around the hot lump in his throat. Daenerys looked unconvinced.
“I’ve done bad things.”
“No one is blameless. The Mother’s mercy awaits all of us.” Mercy, grace. That was all we needed in the end. Daenerys slid gracefully into the creaking chair.
“I’m not even sure he believed. His family followed the old gods,” she said.
“And yet you want to be where he is one day. In the next life,” Gerris asked. Daenerys gave a slow nod.
“If there is a chance I could be with him again, I will do what you ask.” There was steel ringing in the words, as if they were a sacred oath. Gerris sipped his coffee to buy time to think. Daenerys was not only grief-stricken and questioning, but desperate. He must be careful.
“I cannot speak for the old gods. I thought funeral rites prescribed cremation.” Daenerys recoiled.
“They did, they do. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of burning him. You must think that is foolish.”
Gerris risked laying his hand over hers. Father above, even warmed by the heater, her hands were like ice!
“You loved him. So much you would swear devotion to a god you don’t believe in on the off chance you could see him in heaven. That doesn’t sound foolish to me.”
“Tell me more,” Daenerys said.
The atmosphere relaxed after that. Over coffee and half-stale teacakes, he and Daenerys whiled away the small hours of the night talking about faith. Conversation ranged wider as Daenerys relaxed, onward to discuss mythology and science and politics. Gerris glanced out the window toward the lightening sky and rubbed his gritty eyes.
“Apologies, my dear, but I must get some rest. My relief is due soon. Shall I walk you to your car?”
Daenerys smile was so lovely it stole his breath, but there was little enough joy in it.
“I think not, Maester. Thank you for your kindness and conversation. I think I’ll stay at the marker a while longer.”
Gerris’ creaking knees scaled the stairs to his small room. From the tiny window, in the murky predawn light, he glimpsed Daenerys’ lonely figure among the gravestones. Find peace, my dear. At last the clouds were breaking and Gerris took heart in the brilliant gold of the rising sun. Septon Walder arrived promptly at seven fifteen. Gerris made a detour through the markers until he found the roses Daenerys had left. Gorgeous winter blooms, as blue as the heart of a sapphire. The marble stone. Jon Snow: Beloved Husband
Gerris murmured a prayer over the stone, hoping Jon had found peace—as well as Daenerys who loved him.
