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Summer Ship: The Ballad of Dany and Yara (Part 3)

Miss Part One or Part Two?

Melisandre and Cersei reach the outskirts of Crakehall village just as the first glimmer of dawn stabs the horizon. Cersei moves far slower than Melisandre, her once beautiful body worn to weakness by captivity.

“I need to rest,” she says, panting and leaning against an ugly wooden church.

“We don’t have time to rest. Any minute now the villagers will wake up.”

“Surely you don’t think they’ll recognize us?” Cersei asks with a bitter laugh. “Even Jaime wouldn’t know me now, much less some peasants.”

“None the less, we shouldn’t chance it.”

“I need to rest,” Cersei insists, a trace of her former authority shining through. Cersei turns to inspect the church doors. A long iron bar has been pushed under both door handles, locking the church from the outside.

“Strange. They’ve been barred shut. Why would they do that?”

A frayed piece of parchment nailed to the left door of the church catches Cersei’s eye, and she begins to read. She pales and recoils.

“What does it say?”

As if in answer, a muffled whimper comes from the other side of the door.

“Plague. This is a quarantine.”

Melisandre backs away.

“We need to leave.”

She turns and stalks away. Cersei moves to follow her, then pauses. She has an idea. A powerful, terrible idea. The sort of idea Cersei thought she might never have again.

Cersei moves back to the door. She pushes the iron bar with all her might, willing it to move with every fiber of her being, summoning every last reserve of strength. When the bar creaks to movement, finally falling onto the grass with a heavy thud.

“You must come now!” Melisandre calls. “Day is breaking.” And so it is.

Cersei turns and walks after Melisandre. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t see the wan, wasted fingers curling around the church door. She only sees the morning light.

It is going to be a beautiful day.

The tourney grounds had been carefully selected for their location (close to King’s Landing to be convenient, far enough to be empty) and fair appearance. Lush green hills, once dotted only by wildflowers and dirt roads, are now filled with flowers of a different sort: great pavilions of the great houses in every hue imaginable, each more elaborate than the last. Knights and ladies from every house in Westeros have come to pay their tribute to Queens Yara and Daenerys and add their names to the list. While some tourneys focused only on a particular type of combat, this great Midsummer Tourney had a competition for every type of Knight. There are jousts, melees, mock battles between teams of knights, duels, and an archery contest. It would last three days.

At the end of the Midsummer Tourney, the greatest knight would bow before Yara and Dany and receive their favors: a white handkerchief and a place in the Castle Guard. From Hedge Knights to Lordlings, the fighters came from every place in Westeros and every background. However, this tourney is different than any other. For the first time in Westeros history, women are allowed to compete in the battles. Both Brienne and Arya had entered.

Closer to the battlegrounds are simpler tents. These homespun, practical creations are just big enough to host a merchant hawking his wares. Vendor tents sell ale, fresh bread, roast mutton, cool water, and oats for the horses. The battlegrounds are enormous, rectangular grass fields. Surrounding the battlegrounds are wooden stands two stories high for the hundreds of festival attendees to watch the battles. Those too poor to purchase a seat stand in the pits beneath. These are peasants, paupers, and the rest of the lower class come to enjoy the free entertainment and bread. Child pickpockets weave through this raucous throng, cutting the purse of any soul too foolhardy or drunk to keep a close eye.

At the head of each battleground is the highest stand, topped by a purple tent with the Targaryen crest. Yara and Dany sit in this stand, surrounded by their closest advisors and the highest nobility. They sip wine and nibble on honey drizzled dates and roast chicken.

The first event of the day is a melee. It is the roughest of contests, a free for all of fifty or so knights in full armor. Dany had insisted (much to Yara’s amusement) that the swords and axes be padded to prevent too much death. The contestants and onlookers grumbled at such ridiculous provisions on their bloody fun, but Dany had been quite insistent, and they had accepted this as some feminine quirk of their Lady Queen. In truth, Dany is so popular and had ushered in such a prosperous and happy time to Westeros that the people would have happily done anything she said.

“This is so exciting,” Yara says, clapping her hands in delight. “I’ve never seen a melee before.”

“It’s like a battle with less blood and no real enmity,” Dany says, amused by her wife’s delight. Knowing it un-Queenly but not caring, she sneaks a kiss. Yara happily returns. The Queen’s Guard hastily closes the tent flaps to give the Queens a little privacy. Too quickly the trumpeters blow their horns, and the Queens pull apart and hastily fix their gowns. The servants open the silk tent flaps to reveal the battlefield is now filled with knights in shining armor, armed to the teeth and facing their sovereigns. They bow.

Dany stands and lifts her hands imperiously. The crowd falls silent.

“I declare this Midsummer Fair officially commenced. Let the melee begin!”

And so it begins. The crowd roars in approval, and the 50 or so odd Knights fall upon each other viciously. Within seconds the first is down, felled by a longsword blow to the head. Healers with stretches slither through the battle, ferrying the fallen to the safety of healing tents, where their wounds will be treated by herbs and their ringing heads soothed by enormous flagons of ale.

A clear winner emerges within minutes: The Hound. Ser Sandor Clegane towers above the rest, a broadsword in one hand and an ax in the other, cutting down all who stand in his way with a single powerful stroke. Yara and Dany wince as one Knight goes down particularly hard.

“Maybe cushioning the weapons wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” Yara mutters. “You think?” Dany replies.

The Hound’s relationship with the crowd is fraught. Many had called for his execution at the trials following Dany’s invasion and succession to the Iron Throne. Arya had shocked them all when she begged for clemency. Dany had granted Ser Sandor pardon under the condition that he serve the crown, seeking out those who did harm and administering the Queen’s justice. So he did. Ser Sandor Clegane now rode through Westeros dressed all in black, answering calls for protection, hunting down and executing murderers. He is a killer. He would always be a killer. But now, as the Queen’s dog, he killed killers. More men fell and were carried off the field. To nobody’s surprise and nobody’s joy, The Hound won the melee.

Next up: the joust. Horns blew to summon the champions. Murmurs of excitement come from the crowd as heralds boomed the names of each Knight. They mounted the horses at the south end of the field before pausing in front of the royal viewing stand to bow to Yara and Dany. They circle to each end of the field, lining up to select their opponents. In total, there are twenty jousters. At the middle is Ser Jorah Mormont, his bald head covered by a steel helmet. He faces Ser Ossifer Lipps of the Vale.

Dany sighs with worry.

“He’s too old for this. I begged him not to enter. Ser Lipps is a fierce Knight and a seasoned jouster, decades younger than Jorah. Why does he do it? Why does he put himself in constant danger?”

“He does it for you,” Yara says blackly, gulping Arbor gold and shoving a strawberry pie in her mouth.

“He’s never stopped loving you. I think part of him still thinks he has a chance.”

“Don’t be jealous, Yara. You know there’s no one but you.”

She cups Yara’s sharp chin and stares deep into her gray eyes

Yara cracks a smile.

“I know. But does he?”

The Knights are lined up and ready, lances down, shield up. The crowd is silent with anticipation. A horn sounds. The silence shatters. Ten pairs of spurs drive into the flanks of steeds, hundreds of voices shout, 40 hooves pound, and the Knights crash together in a terrible clatter of wood and steel. The riders pass each other, then wield around to strike again. Seven of the lances have broken, and these Knights unhappily ride off the field to unsaddle. This happens again. Now 11 lances have broken. Only two Knights remain. Ser Jorah and Ser Ossifer. They wheel around to face each other. The crowd roars. Dany grips Yara’s hand.

“Look at him. He’s bleeding.”

And indeed, Ser Jorah is bleeding from his right shoulder. Ossifer’s lance had hit and stabbed him straight through. The blood is pouring. He can’t hold his shield straight, leaving the other side exposed.

“We must stop this,” Dany says, rising. Yara stops her halfway and pulls her down.

“No. You are Queen. To stop now would be a sign of weakness. He chose this. He can surrender at any time. You mustn’t mother him. He and your people will not thank you for it.”

“You’re right. I just hate to see him suffer. He’s been with me since I was a girl with nothing.”

“And now he is old and foolish.”

The riders plow into each other. This time, Ossifer’s lance sends Jorah soaring into the air and hitting the ground with the clatter of mail breaking and bones cracking.

The healers come to carry him off. He is gravely wounded. Dany fixes a smile that betrays nothing onto her face, accepts Ser Ossifer’s bow and dubs him the winner. She then scurries away as fast as is acceptable for a Queen to scurry.

When Dany pushes aside the cotton flap of the green healer’s tent, Ser Jorah’s armor is off, and he is bandaged. But the bandages are soaked through. His face and every visible bit of skin is covered with yellow and blue bruises.

Dany rushes to his side.

“Is he awake?” she asks the healer. “Yes. But I fear…” The healer’s voice drops to a whisper.

“I feel he will not live for long. If you want to say goodbye, do it now.”

Jorah opens his mouth.

“You don’t have to whisper. I know my fate. I accepted death long ago.”

The healer gives Dany and Jorah some privacy.

“Jorah”

“No. Let me speak. I won’t be able to for much longer. I have something to say before I die. I love you, Dany. My love for you has consumed my life, redeemed me, given me purpose, and brought me home. By allowing me to serve and love you from afar, you have given me a life greater than I ever believed possible. I never expected my love to be returned. You and Yara are meant to be together. She is young, and I am old, and you love her like I love you. All is as it should be. I die in peace, and I thank you.”

Tears pour down Dany’s cheeks as she leans to kiss Jorah’s cheek.

“I love you too, Jorah.”

Jorah smiles a sad, dying smile and weakly pats Dany on the hand.

“Now aren’t you the sweetest girl to say that.”

He closes his eyes. His breathing slows and stops. Dany cries alone over her oldest friend for a long time.

Finally, Yara enters and comes to Dany’s side. She throws herself into Yara’s arms. Yara takes a sheet and covers Jorah’s body.

“There there. He died at your side. He was ready. I think… I think that’s why he entered the lists. He was very tired.”

Dany wipes her tears and stands tall. It is Midsummer, and the Queen must celebrate with her people. There is no trace of Dany’s sadness when she returns to the Royal Stand. Only a regal smile. Two Knights enter the fighting grounds and bow to each other. One is much larger. It is Ser Brienne of Tarth and Arya of Winterfell.

Dany gives Yara a sidelong look.

“Arya is no Knight. Why was she allowed to enter the lists?”

Yara smirks.

“Special Royal dispensation. Don’t scold; she’s done wonderfully. She thoroughly trounced Ser Answet of Holt, Ser Vander of Kettleblack, and Ser Ien of Lyderly. Brienne has done the same to Ser Lucas of Charlton, Ser Forley of Prester, and Ser Chanter of Orme. They are the last two remaining fighters in hand to hand sword fighting and the only two women to enter. I suspect their victories will encourage young noble women to seek Knighthood and enter the lists next Midsummer.”

This cheers Dany up a bit.

The two duel again, and again Arya scores a few points, but Brienne emerges the most skilled fighter. It is close, and when Brienne is pronounced the winner, Arya’s sulky demeanor is punctured by incredible respect for Brienne. Dany bestows Brienne her favor. Arya and Brienne turn to leave the field. Yara stands.

“What are you doing?” Dany asks.

“I have an idea.”

She speaks loudly so everyone can hear.

“Arya, it is clear you are destined to become a great Knight. But you have much to learn, and I can think of no better teacher than Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

An expression of surprise, then delight crosses Arya’s face. Brienne looks stunned.

“Brienne, are you willing to take Arya Stark of Winterfell as your squire, as requested by your Queen?”

Brienne smiles wryly.

“In truth, since elevating my last Squire to Knighthood, I have enjoyed the peace. But you’re right. I would be delighted to take Arya of Stark as my Squire.”

“Arya, will you kneel and swear yourself Ser Brienne’s Squire.”

“I will.”

The crowd roars with approval. Arya kneels before Brienne and takes her vow. Yara sits down with a satisfied smile. She looks at Dany. Dany is beaming.

“That was an excellent idea.”

Hours later, after the feast, Lady Mormont interrupts Yara and Dany in their purple silk tent. She is flanked by an exhausted, sweat-stained messenger.

“My Queens, I apologize. But I come bearing urgent news.”

“Can’t it wait until the end of the Midsummer Festival?”

“No.”

She pushes the messenger forward. He is swaying, clearly having run many leagues.

“My Queens, I come from Crakehall. I bear terrible tidings.”

Melisandre and Cersei walk the cobblestone road to Silverhall dressed as beggars wrapped in rags. A few coppers had bought them passage on a wagon laden with grain destined for the Silverhall larders. House Silverhall’s flag flaps in the wind above the Castle. A peacock in his pride in cream. House Silverhall’s words are emblazoned beneath the peacock: “I have no rival.”

Cersei leans as if to support Melisandre and whispers in her ear.

“House Silverhall has always been a friend and vassal of the Lannisters. We will find help here.”

The End

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