GOT: Khal — Chapter 118 - Rhaegal Gravely Wounded

Drogo sat on Drogon's back and looked down.

Clouds churned below him. Small bands of cavalry scattered across the grasslands, darting east and west like ants — cursing, loosing a few arrows, then wheeling and running.

His heavy cavalry couldn't catch them, and he wasn't about to push his light cavalry forward and risk losing them to an ambush.

He thought: from everything I know about the Dothraki, most khals would just charge in without thinking. This Moro actually has a brain. He knows how to work tactics.

Drogon suddenly hammered his wings and shot forward. The force yanked Drogo backward in the saddle. He pulled his gaze from the ground and looked ahead, above the grasslands, a flock of birds was circling in slow spirals.

The birds never had time to react. Black dragonflame erupted from Drogon's throat and detonated in midair.

Drogon folded his wings and dove straight into the fire, snapping his jaws wide to swallow charred birds by the mouthful.

The heat hit Drogo's face like an open hand. It felt like someone was peeling the skin clean from his cheeks.

The fire had scorched all the air dry around him. He gasped with his mouth wide open and got nothing. His hair and beard curled and singed in the rolling superheated draft.

His whole body felt like it had been thrown into an oven. His skin burned red and pulled tight.

Only then did he remember, the dragon-bond had never given him fire resistance. The ones who don't fear fire are the Targaryens.

Not Khal Drogo.

He gritted his teeth and kept scouting.

Drogon swept past a mountain with three peaks. Nothing grew on it, not a blade of grass, not a patch of moss. The gray-white rock was gnawed full of cracks by the wind, stripped to bare stone. The slopes were nothing but rubble. The riverbed in the valley below had long since dried up, lying there like a dead snake.

Not far beyond, the khalasars' camps began to appear scattered across the grasslands, tents in gray and brown, placed like random pieces on a game board. Riders moved back and forth between them.

Drogo locked every position in memory, turned, and flew back.

Back at camp, he had a large barrel of cold water hauled in. He stripped off his armor, climbed in, and sank until the water covered his shoulders.

The coolness seeped into his burned skin. It hurt and it felt incredible at the same time. He wrung out a wet cloth, draped it over his face, leaned back against the barrel wall, and decided he was never moving again.

Kelo, his commander of a thousand, grinned at him. "Khal. Aren't you supposed to be immune to fire?"

Drogo said nothing. The cloth stayed on his face.

The three bloodriders standing at the barrel exchanged glances, lowered their heads, and smothered their laughter.

His reconnaissance had confirmed it: Moro's coalition was dug into the tall grass, holding good ground.

Drogo ordered Kelo to take 3,000 heavy cavalry and hold the rear. He led the main force directly at the coalition's khalasar camps.

The khals couldn't afford to lose their camps. They had no choice but to abandon their prepared positions and turn back to defend them.

Kelo's rearguard harassed them every step of the way and slowed their march to a crawl. The khalasars had never fully trusted each other to begin with, each khal had his own priorities, none willing to commit to the rear when his own camp might be burning. They jostled to get back first.

Drogo swept through the scattered camps and broke them one by one.

After the battle, he had his men restock their provisions and burn everything else.

That was when a scout came galloping back at full speed. "Khal. Moro's main force has arrived."

Drogo reined in his horse. "How many?"

The scout's voice was tight. "They cover the entire grassland. No end to them. I took a prisoner. He says the alliance has mustered 230,000 men."

Two hundred and thirty thousand.

His heart seized. Sweat prickled his palms. His face showed nothing.

He commanded the largest khalasar in the Dothraki Sea. He had always been the one with the numbers, always the one with the strength.

In all his years of war, the headcount had never looked like this.

He gripped the reins until his knuckles ached, stared at the tide of men pressing slowly toward him along the distant horizon, and swallowed hard.

"Retreat. Fall back to Three Peaks."

On the coalition side.

Khal Moro personally led 100,000 men in a frontal assault.

Urgo and Morak each commanded 50,000 to guard the center's two flanks. The remaining khals led the rest of the alliance's forces on a long detour to encircle from the flank and rear.

Before they rode out, Moro summoned Urgo and Morak.

"The women, children, and elderly of your khalasars all died under Drogo's blades. Today I've given you more men than your entire khalasars ever held. I've handed you your chance at revenge. Don't disappoint me."

Urgo ground his back teeth, the flesh on his face twitching. "That shameless animal raided our camps." The veins on his rein hand stood out like cords. "I will make him pay this blood debt."

Morak said nothing. He nodded once.

The two turned their horses and rode out side by side.

A few dozen paces out, Morak tilted his head. "I told them from the start — just attack. Moro had to have his ambush. Now it's my khalasar that's been wiped out, and he talks about it like it cost him nothing."

Urgo heard him and didn't answer.

He and Morak had never been close. Without Drogo to unite them, two khals on the open grassland were enemies to the death. He couldn't be bothered to respond. He spurred his horse and rode ahead.

Moro stood on high ground and watched the two of them dwindle into the distance.

Hora stood at his back. "Blood of my blood. Using those khalasars to draw Drogo's army into attacking — it has borne great fruit."

Moro didn't turn around. There was a note of regret in his voice. "I had wanted to send more khalasars to graze out there. Some khals refused."

He let a moment pass. "Once Drogo is destroyed, we deal with the rest. Three Peaks is where I make my name. I will become the Stallion Who Mounts the World. The khal of khals."

What Moro didn't know was that Drogo was already in the air.

He took to the sky on Drogon and saw the coalition's forces blanketing the entire grassland, surging in from every direction.

He made his deployments without hesitation.

Fogo Barbo to hold the northern face of the mountain with 10,000 cavalry. Aka to hold the southern face with 10,000. Drogo himself in the center with 17,000.

Moro's forces drove through the middle. Drogo met them head-on with his heavy cavalry.

This was the best of the Dothraki against the best of the Dothraki, both sides battle-forged, neither side soft.

17,000 heavy cavalry against 100,000, and for a brutal stretch of time, neither side broke.

All three dragons swept overhead, pouring dragonflame across the enemy lines. The fire tore through them like paper.

Drogo drove through the ranks with his glaive, charging back and forth. Men and horses broke apart where he passed. He cut down score after score without slowing, his blade a blur of silver, flesh and blood flying in his wake. He never once panted. Nothing stood in his path.

Then he saw it.

Rhaegal dove for another strafing run. Several massive nets shot up from below and tangled his wings. He crashed hard into the enemy ranks.

They surged over him instantly, blades rising and falling in a frenzy. Drogon and Viserion answered with twin columns of fire that swept over the soldiers rushing toward Rhaegal and burned them to ash.

But Rhaegal was still too young. His scales and outer bone hadn't hardened yet. His head, wings, and tail were unprotected, and the blades found all of them. Blood welled through the gaps between his scales and ran in dark streams.

His roars changed. The fury drained out of them. They became screams.

The membrane of his wings was torn open in long ragged gashes. Every time he thrashed, great sprays of blood mist filled the air.

The enemy crawled over his body like ants. Axes bit into flesh. Arrows drove into the seams between his scales.

Drogo saw it from across the battlefield. The sight punched through him like a blade.

He roared and charged.

➤ Next: Blade Scars on the Neck Armor