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Summer Ship: The Ballad of Dany and Yara (Part 6)

The hooves of a great roan destrier tore into the dirt outside Bartok’s Inn. A dozen eyes turn to take in the fair haired, mail-clad Knight astride the muscular warhorse. Half a dozen paces behind cantered a nimble white courser, smaller and better suited to its rider: a slim Squire in brown trews. Two young stable boys scampered up to help the travelers dismount.

“Treat them well,” Brienne instructed the boys, patting her companion fondly.

“Yes, M’Lord,” the older of the boys stuttered timidly, taking the reins.

Behind her, Arya dismounted, sniffed the air, and looked longingly at the Inn. “I’m starving. Can’t we eat right away?”

Brienne shook her head.

“I’d rather bathe and get settled.”

“Please, Brienne? We haven’t had a real meal since we left King’s Landing. Scrawny game and nettles are not suitable food for a growing girl like myself. Or a strapping Knight such as you.”

Brienne smirked down at Arya. At 6’3 to Arya’s 5’6, Brienne towered over her young Squire.

“I hate to break it to you, Arya, but you’re done growing.”

“Nonsense. I feel my ankles lengthening at this very moment.”

Brienne laughed. She’d laughed more during these last few weeks on the road with Arya than she had her entire life. The girl reveled in cracking her mentor’s stony exterior. It had become a private game: how often could Arya make Brienne laugh? As a result, the journey West had thoroughly enjoyable for both travelers.

“Very well. But we should eat quickly and retire early.”

Arya grinned and open the Inn door, releasing the mouthwatering aromas of roast chicken, fresh bread, and rich, bubbling stew.

“Absolutely.”

One hour and several courses later, Brienne and Arya groaned with sated satisfaction. Arya mopped the last bits of stew up with crusty brown bread and washed it down with a deep flagon of spiced ale.

“That’s enough. I can’t eat another bite.” Brienne said, beckoning to a pretty serving girl with long auburn braids and hazel eyes. She accepted Brienne’s payment with thanks, but her eyes lingered on Arya. Arya met her eyes and smiled. The girl walked away nonchalantly, turning several times to give Arya a flirty smirk. Brienne rolled her eyes.

“We should get to bed.”

“I think she likes me.”

“No matter. We’ll be gone by daybreak.”

“But it’s barely nightfall! Just a little longer, please?”

Brienne sighed.

“I have no interest in playing nursemaid for my bumbling squire and some tavern girl who’s no better than she ought to be.”

“But-“

“But you’re young and stupid. As long as you can ride come Morning, I don’t really care how you spend your time.”

“Thank you, Brienne! I’ll just stay for a quick drink.”

Brienne climbed the dark wooden staircase into the upper level where patrons lodged overnight. She’d secured a room at the very end of the hallway, a narrow, simple chamber with two pallets and a small table.

Slightly tipsy, Brienne fumbled in her pocket for the little brass key.

A floorboard creaked. The candle at the end of the hallway sputtered out. Brienne looked around, suddenly alert. She couldn’t make out anyone else in the corridor. Was it the wind? Brienne grasped for her sword but before she could draw, an enormous fist slammed into Brienne’s right eye. She gasped. Another fist, this time to the mouth. Brienne grabbed her assailant’s neck and twisted. The neck broke with one piercing crack. His body slid onto Brienne, pushing her to the ground. She struggled to break free. Another hand came out of the dark, wrapping a vile smelling cloth over Brienne’s mouth. Brienne’s eyes fluttered, and she fell.

Arya tiptoed through the empty tavern and up the stairs. Her hair was mussed and lips swollen. Brienne was going to take one look and know exactly what she’d done with Nia the serving girl. Her cheeks flushed in anticipation of Brienne’s scathing diatribe. Brienne…

Arya caught sight of the crumpled corpse at the end of the hallway. Her stomach dropped. She ran forward and pulled back the face. Two glazed, unseeing eyes stared back at her. But they didn’t belong to Brienne. Arya looked closer. The dead man was some sort of sell-sword. His head, half ripped from the body, dangled at a jarring angle. Clotted matts of blood, hair, and tendons covered the wound.

The room was empty and in disarray. Whoever had taken Brienne had also stolen all of their food and money. Arya ran to the stables and breathed easier when she found their mounts unharmed. Wary of cutpurses, Brienne had stashed a hidden pouch filled with coins in her horse’s saddle. Arya weighed her options. She could return to King’s Landing, tell Dany and Yara what happened, and return with reinforcements. Or she could test those tracking skills Brienne had been teaching her. Arya saddled up.

Sansa Stark walked down the broad, cobbled streets of White Harbor. It was a neat, clean city of whitewashed stone houses and steep gray slate roofs. During the winter months, frigid salt winds whipped angrily at the citizens of White Harbor’s plain garb. But summer in White Harbor was glorious. Crisp and light and alive.

When the Targaryen Queen reclaimed Westeros, she had invited the Starks to King’s Landing to make a treaty. They declined. The remaining Starks were wary of invitations to King’s Landing. And for good reason.

So Daenerys came to them, along with representatives from each part of Westeros. It was called the first Council of Westeros, or the Winterfell fair. Since then, the Council of Westeros convened once a year to hammer out disputes and discuss the well-being of the Kingdom. It was a savvy political move and popular excuse for the people of Winterfell to get drunk and feast.

But this year there would be no Westerosi Council. Nobody wanted to invite strangers into White Harbor, or any other town of the North. Plague was ravaging the Westerlands and people were terrified it might wander into their home.

Sansa walked up the Sept of the Snows’s marble steps. It was a large Sept with a domed roof surmounted by tall statues of the seven. Hooded figures bowed as she passed. Inside, the only light came from the stained glass ceiling. Worshipers bowed before ancient statues of the seven inlaid with silver and sapphires. They made signs of respect as Sansa passed.

There was one difference between this Sept and every other Sept in Westeros. Inside the Snowy Sept, there were eight statues, not seven. Sansa approached the eighth statue. It was much newer than the others, freshly chiseled, its gray marble edges still sharp. The statue depicted a young woman in a loose gown. The statue’s face was divided into two parts. The left side was lovely: a beautiful girl’s face with a knowing smile and almond eyes. But the right… The right was disturbing. The marble seemed to be melting. There were a few lines distinguishing what once must have been facial features, but the rest seemed to drip down. It was as if a woman caught fire and then turned to stone before the fire could be extinguished.

Inside the cramped little chamber sat Margaery Tyrell. The melted statue. The only survivor. The eighth God. She stood, took High Septa Sansa’s face in her hands, and smiled.

“Hello, my love.”

Arya crouched in the woods, her eyes fixed on the bandit’s campsite. She eavesdropped. The leader, a wiry little man with beady eyes and a long scar, was talking to a loutish team of mercenaries turned outlaws.

“Squealed like a pig he did when I slit his throat. Looked a bit like a pig too. The fat bastard. Probably tasted like a pig but I prefer chicken.”

“What are we going to do with the Knight?”

A big bald man gestured toward a small tent. Arya muffled a relieved gasp. So Brienne was alive. Thank the Gods.

“Bring her to Crakehall. I hear they’re looking for fighting men. There’s a rebellion brewing, and that means easy money for killing farmboy conscripts.”

“But why take her?”

“She’s a Noble. They’re hiring mercenaries, which means they need money. Her family might pay a handsome ransom, and we’ll get a finders fee.”

The men chuckled and the conversation turned to past battles. Arya plotted.

While the rest of the bandits slept, the large bald man stood sentry duty. Arya waited until the moon was full and the man was barely awake. She tiptoed closer until she could make out the moles on the back of his neck. She unsheathed needle and leaned forward. A twig broke under her foot. The man’s eyes flew open, and he twisted around, sword raised. Too slow.

Needle plunged deep into the man’s windpipe, punching through the other side and unleashing a heavy gush of blood. Arya gently lowered him to the ground. She didn’t want the body to make any noise that might wake the others.

She crept into camp, heading straight for the leader. She drew needle and surveyed the sleeping bandits. None of them would be waking up again.

Dany and Yara strolled hand in hand through the royal gardens. When the gardener discovered that gardenias were Dany’s favorite flowers, he’d planted a bevy of them. The gardenias were in full bloom, fragrant and white and euphoric. Every afternoon at two o’clock, Yara would come into the throne room and announce that Dany had a pressing matter to attend to. The two would glide past row after row of gardenias, sipping pomegranate juice and discussing the day’s events.

“Sansa has arrived in White Harbor and is ensconced with Margaery Tyrell in the Snowy Sept. It is our hope that, together, the High Septa and burned Goddess can devise some plan to stop the plague.”

“I pray they can find an answer. If not, the plague may strike King’s Landing come fall.”

“They will.”

Dany’s face darkened.

“What is it?”

“A raven arrived this morning from Silverhill.”

“Silverhill? Why?”

“It’s Cersei. She’s there and she’s raising an army. The Nobles of the Westerlands are banding together for a Lannister rebellion.”

The color drained from Yara’s face, but her eyes filled with steel.

“So there will be war.”

“Yes.”

“And plague.”

“Yes.”

Daenerys Targaryen stopped to smell the flowers.

I’m back! Thanks for bearing with me these last couple weeks while I took a (longer than expected) hiatus. Next week I’m debuting a teaser for the show I wrote (yay) and post-production is incredibly time consuming. I’ve decided to make this an eight part series so I can make it right. Per many reader requests (and also: why not?) I brought back Margaery Tyrell. In order to make her living viable in the GOT world, she needed to have special powers. So I decided to bring her back as a God. I didn’t think it was right to let her survive the fire with no changes, so she is the burned God. Half lovely, half melted. She’s paired with Sansa (the new high Sept) and together they are revolutionizing the faith of the seven and changing it into the faith of the eight! I can’t wait to read your comments and reconnect. Feel free to ask me any questions and give input on what happens next. Adore you all, Chloe.

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