GOT: Khal — Chapter 117 - Roasted Dragon Leg? Win the Battle First

The army pushed north.

Beyond the 30,000 heavy cavalry brought out of Meereen, Drogo had pulled in another 10,000 light riders from the garrison at Henan Prefecture.

Where the iron horses passed, the north wind caught their dust and scattered it across men and armor alike, coating everything in a dull gray film. Grass taller than a man bent and buckled under the hooves, trampled flat into the mud.

Mongo's coalition wouldn't meet them head-on. They sent out small raiding parties instead, flankers who emerged from the tall grass, loosed a few arrows, screamed their insults, then wheeled and vanished before Drogo's riders could run them down.

"Khal Drogo! Every man in your khalasar is a coward of the grass sea!"

"What kind of skill is hiding inside iron skins? Take off that armor and fight us like men!"

Thousand-commander Jako kept pace at Drogo's side, watching the dust trail the harassers left as they fled, his brow furrowed. "Any man with eyes can see it. They're baiting us into an ambush."

Drogo pulled his reins. His horse slowed. "I've been following their lead for days now." There was a flat, compressed impatience in his voice. "Where exactly are they trying to take me?"

Qotho raised a hand to shade his eyes and squinted north. "Go much further and it's Vaes Dothrak. Maybe Mongo wants to buy us a drink in the sacred city." He sneered.

Hamund snorted, loud and careless. "My read? They're scared. That fight at Henan Prefecture — the dragons rattled them to their bones. Half that alliance has probably already gone home."

Cohollo shook his head slowly. "Hamund. You know as well as I do — Dothraki don't break that easy."

"We keep moving," Drogo said. "I want to see exactly how grand a feast Khal Mongo has set for me up ahead."

He rode with his pudao loose in one hand, Valyrian steel armor wrapped around his shoulders. Whatever ambush lay north, it didn't trouble him. Where dragonflame reached, the sky burned scorched red. Where the iron riders passed, the earth shook. Mongo's bare-chested warriors, out in the open against heavy cavalry and three dragons, they were lambs that hadn't figured out they were already dead.

On the other side of the hills.

At the edge of the camp, hundreds of slaves worked in clusters, weaving nets. The rope was thumb-thick, twisted from raw hemp and strips of sun-dried cowhide. Beside them sat stacked bundles of spare cordage and iron anchors, tips ground to a bright edge, purpose-built to be driven into the ground and hold, so no dragon could drag the nets into the sky.

A handful of Dothraki warriors stood among the slaves, overseeing the work. One of them was bare-chested, a horse tattooed across his chest. He'd been staring at the net in progress for a long time. Finally, he muttered it: "These nets... are they actually going to do anything?"

The older warrior beside him cut him a look. "Are you questioning Khal Mongo?"

The bare-chested man dropped his gaze. It landed on the arakh hanging from his own hand. The blade was warped, most of the edge melted down to slag, nothing left but a twisted lump of iron. His lips moved. He didn't say another word.

Inside the great tent of the alliance, twenty-one khals sat in a ring.

Mongo stood a full head taller than anyone else in the circle. His oiled braid coiled twice around his waist, weighted with a dozen bronze bells that clinked and clattered at the slightest turn of his head.

Behind each khal, his bloodriders sat cross-legged on the ground, arakhs resting across their knees. Hora sat among them, his khalasar was ash now, burned out by Drogo, and he'd passed into Mongo's service.

"Blood of my blood." Mongo's voice moved around the circle. "Drogo has been riding our tail the whole way. Something about it doesn't sit right with me. I've crossed blades with him before. He's not the kind of man who walks obediently into a trap."

Khal Urgo laughed through his nose. "He's scared the courage out of you, has he? They're cowards in iron clothes — nowhere near as fearsome as you're making them sound."

A few other khals echoed the jeer. Someone raised his wine bowl toward Hora in a mock salute. "To our friend Drogo, who runs from a real fight."

Hora's face didn't change. "He has three dragons," he said. "You haven't forgotten what happened the other day. Fire columns coming straight down out of the sky. Horses and riders burned to charcoal where they stood."

"Right, the dragons, that's the only reason I showed up to this alliance." Khal Morako slapped his thigh. "I want a whole dragon leg for myself. Roasted whole."

"Take the leg. The black dragon's eyes are mine." Another khal grinned, showing a gap where his front teeth used to be. "Been wondering what dragon eyes taste like for years."

"You're all fools." A younger khal shot to his feet, his braid snapping behind him. "I'm capturing the green one and making it my mount. That's the color of the grass sea. Looks right to me."

"In your dreams." The scar-faced khal across the circle stabbed his arakh into the dirt. "I'm cutting the green dragon's head off and hanging it above my tent."

"You touch one scale on that dragon, " The young khal's hand dropped to his hilt. "I'll take the head off every man in your khalasar."

"Easy, easy." Another voice cut in. "I've got no quarrel with you wanting the green one as a mount. I just want the three dragon cocks. Forty wives, a man has to look after himself."

The tent came apart in laughter.

"Enough." Mongo's voice snapped them quiet. "Drogo is about to ride into our encirclement. We can argue about the spoils after he's dead. I swear by the Great Stallion, every one of you will get what you came for."

One khal wasn't satisfied. He stuck his chin out. "Has to be settled now. Nobody's going to honor anything once the blood dries."

Urgo folded his arms. "Simple enough, after we kill Drogo, whoever wants something takes it. We can always have another fight between ourselves." He said it like that was perfectly reasonable. The heads around the circle nodded.

The noise settled.

In the quieter corners of the tent, bloodriders leaned close to their khals' ears. "When the fighting starts, we hold back. Let the others spend themselves. Then, once they're worn down, we handle the other khals too..."

Nobody finished the sentence. Nobody needed to. The khals who heard it lifted their wine bowls and drank, faces blank, bowls raised just high enough to cover half a face, leaving only a pair of eyes above the rim.

Khal Morako stood up abruptly, impatience written all over him. "Mongo. What is this ambush business? I'm not some scheming snake. We fight, we fight face to face."

Mongo's expression went flat and cold. "Take your khalasar and ride out whenever you like. Nobody's stopping you."

The tent went still.

Mongo rose. He lifted both arms wide. The bells on his braid crashed and rang.

"We box Drogo in at Three Peaks. That mountain is bare rock, not a blade of grass in the cracks, no water, no food. Give it a week and he starves where he stands."

"Yes!" The khals roared it together, loud enough to rattle the tent poles, celebrating a victory that hadn't happened yet.

Hora sat in his corner. He watched them shout. He watched them raise their bowls.

He opened his mouth. The words made it as far as his throat, then he let them go. No one was looking at him. No one would have listened. That small, persistent unease, it was like ash caught by wind and thrown into flame. One brief flare. Then nothing.

He lowered his head and drank the rest of his wine, slow and quiet. Somewhere in the warmth of it, even he began to feel it, maybe victory really was right there in front of them.

➤ Next: Rhaegal Gravely Wounded