GOT: Khal — Chapter 116 - Drogon Gets Whipped Again
Drogon was buried head-deep in a charred horse carcass.
The horse had fallen at the edge of the battlefield, its rider still pinned beneath it — an arrow through his throat, blood long since dried, face-down in the dirt, both hands still wrapped around the reins.
Shattered spear shafts littered the ground. Arrows jutted from the earth at odd angles. A few haystacks still smoldered, pushing up columns of choking black smoke.
The wind stirred, and ash swirled up and settled on the faces of the dead, on the dragon's armor.
The Black Dragon's plate and neck guard bore a dozen shallow scratches from arrowheads.
The craftsmen of Slaver's Bay knew their trade. Every scale of the neck guard had been forged to match the dimensions of the dragon's own scales, each piece fitted tight against the next. As Drogon turned his head, spread his wings, or cracked his tail, the plates shifted with a low, rolling clatter and never once bound or slowed him.
The dragon bond meant Drogo grew stronger as his dragons did. He had no intention of repeating the Dragon Mother's mistakes. He had armored Drogon's neck right down to the last scale.
Drogon lowered his head and sniffed at the corpse. His tongue slipped between his teeth and licked the bloodstain off the dead man's boot. Then he opened his jaws and leaned toward the body's head.
CRACK. Drogo's whip snapped out and caught Drogon squarely on the tip of his snout.
The Black Dragon jerked back. Armor plates clattered. A short, sharp hiss escaped his throat.
His head tilted sideways. Both eyes fixed on Drogo, pupils narrowed to slits, smoke still curling from his mouth.
The whip lifted again. Before it fell, he behaved.
He shut his mouth, stepped back half a pace, lowered his head, and went back to gnawing the charred horse. He didn't look at the corpse again.
Rhaegal and Viserion lay not far away, already nearly done eating.
Viserion puffed a small burst of sparks and glanced at Drogon with an expression that said, Got whipped again. Never learns.
Drogo never allowed the three dragons to eat human flesh.
Ever since they were hatchlings, after every battle, he had followed behind them with a whip in hand. The moment any one of them tried to gnaw on a corpse, the whip came down. Rhaegal and Viserion had learned after a handful of beatings. Now they gave dead men a wide berth, preferring to go hungry rather than touch one.
Drogon was another matter. He had taken more whippings than Drogo could count and still couldn't always resist leaning in for a sniff. But the moment Drogo raised the whip, he would pull his neck back and retreat, grumbling out a dissatisfied hiss.
Pono, Commander of the Henan Prefecture, sat on horseback watching the Black Dragon tear into the horse carcass.
"Khal," he said, "when you left for Slaver's Bay, they were still hatchlings. At this size, they can take the field."
"Not big enough yet. They need to eat far more," Drogo replied.
He had driven thirty thousand heavy cavalry and three dragons on a forced march day and night to crush the combined Mogo Khalasar that had crossed the river to attack. On the battlefield, the allied warriors had broken apart under iron cavalry and dragonfire hammering them from two directions at once.
Governor Hasan bowed. "Khal Drogo, the Lhazareen are deeply grateful that you kept your word to protect them. They wish to offer more cattle and sheep to feed the great dragons."
"That won't be necessary." Drogo swept his gaze across the horse carcasses strewn over the ground. "There are enough dead horses here to stuff them full. Fine grass-fed animals, too. They go further than mutton."
He glanced around and read the faces of the Lhazareen nearby.
These people still looked at the Dothraki with fear in their eyes, but a different kind of fear than before. Not the kind that made mice freeze at the sight of a cat.
Inspector Nak stepped forward. Once a Good Master of Astapor who had spoken only Valyrian, he now managed clumsy Common Tongue, his tone carrying the familiar edge of flattery.
"You defeated them with ease. They won't dare look at what's yours for years."
"They were only bait, trying to lure me out into the Dothraki Sea." Drogo smiled. "Khal Moro, you'll get your wish."
Bloodrider Cohollo's voice was steady with confidence. "We have three dragons. Whatever the battlefield, we're the only ones who walk away from it."
Qotho nodded. "The Dothraki Sea is our ground too. It's been a long time since I've been back. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it."
Drogo turned his gaze across the faces of Hasan, Pono, and Nak.
Three men standing side by side. One running civil affairs, one military command, one the law. A Lhazareen, a Dothraki captain of a thousand, and a former slaver of Astapor, keeping the Henan Prefecture running without a crack.
"It seems the three of you work well together."
Hasan opened his mouth. Drogo raised a hand to stop him. He'd heard enough flattery for one day.
He turned to face his bloodriders and the captains assembled behind him and raised his voice. "Let's cross. We mustn't keep Khal Moro waiting."
He took the lead onto the pontoon bridge.
The deck was laid over empty wine barrels with thick planks nailed on top, swaying slightly underfoot, wide enough for two wagons side by side. After conquering Slaver's Bay, he'd had a whole corps of craftsmen at his disposal. Bridges like this one were the least of what they could build.
Drogo reined in on the far bank and turned to look back.
The heavy cavalry came across in an endless stream. Horses and riders wrapped in iron from head to hoof, dazzling under the sun, like a great silver dragon rolling slowly across the river. As the front ranks hit the bank, they swung into formation behind him without a word.
He stared at that long river of iron and thought about the day he had first crossed over.
Back then, his warriors rode bare-chested. They thought men who wore iron armor were cowards. They couldn't read, couldn't count, couldn't write their own names.
Tell them to organize by hundreds and thousands, and they thought he was breaking up their clans. Tell them to put on armor, and they took it as an insult. Tell them to take a city, and they'd shoot back that a great Khal should only fight enemies worth fighting.
Now, his captains of thousands wrote battle reports. His captains of hundreds could tally rations and fodder. His warriors lined up at the blacksmiths' forges and pushed each other out of the way to get fitted. A thousand years of tradition, ground down and rebuilt — one cartload of spoils at a time, one victory at a time.
Something deep and unnameable settled in his chest. Not pride, exactly. Foundation.
He had reformed this army and re-equipped it from the ground up. He trusted them completely.
Thirty thousand iron-clad cavalry and three armored dragons. Even if Moro twisted every Khalasar on the whole grassland into a single force and hurled them at him, Drogo wasn't afraid.
Drogon burst off the ground. A wave of scorching air rolled outward. The ash beneath his wings spun up into a vortex.
Rhaegal and Viserion lifted after him. The three dragons swept across the river in a wedge, their shadows racing fast over the water below.
The heavy cavalry turned north and began to move. Hoofbeats built into something that sounded like wind tearing across the earth, rolling and rolling until the last shred of hesitation was ground into the mud beneath it.
Ahead lay the grasslands. The boundless open steppe. And a brutal battle waiting for Drogo.
➤ Next: Roasted Dragon Leg? Win the Battle First