GOT: Khal — Chapter 119 - Blade Scars on the Neck Armor

The podao in Drogo's hands became a silver-white whirlwind. Enemy soldiers fell before him in swaths, like wheat going down before a scythe.

The blade split leather armor and sheared through bone. Blood sprayed across his face — scalding, salt-bitter.

His feet never stopped. He hacked down a charging Dothraki rider with one stroke, reversed his grip, swept horizontally, and cut another man clean in two at the waist.

"Khal!" Cohollo's roar came from behind him. "Enemy riders are circling the left flank!"

Drogo didn't turn. He knocked an incoming arrow aside with his blade, dropped low, and slipped between two panicked warhorses.

Thirty paces ahead, Rhaego was surrounded. Enemy soldiers packed tight on every side.

A low growl rolled up from Drogo's throat. He kicked off the ground and crashed into the mass of bodies like a cannonball.

The podao swept horizontal, three heads flew into the air. It came down vertical, a warhorse, saddle and rider both, split in two.

Severed limbs scattered. Blood mist hung thick in the air.

"Protect Rhaego!" he roared.

His warriors heard it and came pouring in from every direction.

The bloodriders followed in Drogo's wake, arakhs swinging, carving a path through flesh and bone.

Then two ear-splitting roars shook the sky above.

Drogon was caught squarely by several enormous nets. Ropes and iron anchors came from three directions at once, tangling around his wings and tail.

The Black Dragon's body plunged hard. He screamed with rage.

He beat his wings with everything he had, muscles swelling like iron. He was less than 10 zhang from the ground when his talons finally tore through the cords.

He let out a savage roar, snapped his wings open, and clawed back into the sky a heartbeat before he hit the earth.

Mid-air, he rolled over and spewed dragonfire at the ground below. The soldiers who had thrown the nets became running torches.

Viserion was something else entirely. The Gold Dragon had instincts Drogon lacked.

He swept low over the battlefield, his broad wings nearly grazing the tops of enemy heads.

Nets came at him from multiple directions. His molten-gold slit pupils contracted. He tilted his body, the first net slid past his left wing.

The second came straight at his face. He snapped his wings shut, body plunging sharply, and the net swept over his head.

Third, fourth, fifth, they came in quick succession. He wove between the ropes with the ease of a fish threading current, each escape closer than the last.

Two of the nets snarled together mid-air and dropped onto screaming enemy soldiers. Viserion let out a triumphant hiss, pulled sharply upward, and didn't dare fly low again.

Drogo finally fought his way through to Rhaego.

He was soaked in blood from head to foot, sweat cutting pale streaks through the red on his face. He closed the last distance in two strides.

Rhaego's breathing was labored. Every exhale leaked a low, whimpering cry through his teeth.

Wounds covered him everywhere. The membrane of his left wing was torn in three long gashes, blood trickling down the wing onto the stones below. Three or four arrows were driven into his tail, their shafts still trembling. Worst of all was his head, an arakh was lodged deep in the bone of his skull, the blade sitting crooked, a hair's breadth from his eye.

His neck armor was carved with blade marks from top to bottom. Without it, he would have been dead.

Drogo's eyes went red. He reached out and gripped the arakh's hilt. Rhaego flinched, letting out a low growl, his massive head pulling back slightly.

"Don't be afraid," Drogo said, his voice rough. "Hold still."

He pulled a deep breath and yanked the blade free. Hot dragon blood surged from the wound.

Rhaego's whole body went rigid. He threw his head back with a sharp cry of pain, then slowly went quiet.

Drogo had no time to feel it. He turned and started pulling arrows from the wings.

Every arrow he drew out made Rhaego shudder hard, a low whimper rolling from his throat.

Drogo clenched his jaw and pulled faster. Every second he lingered was another second of pain.

When the last arrow was out, he threw the bloodied shafts aside and cupped Rhaego's face in both hands.

Blood trickled from Rhaego's mouth through his teeth and dripped onto the backs of Drogo's hands. Scalding hot.

"Can you still fly?" Drogo asked. His voice was tight.

Rhaego didn't answer. He pressed his head into Drogo's chest, nuzzled once, and blew a puff of hot damp breath through his nostrils.

Behind them, the battle kept going.

Cohollo spurred over, drenched in blood, breathing hard. "Khal! They're charging again!"

Drogo looked down at Rhaego. The dragon's eyes were half-closed, Drogo's own face reflected in the pupils.

He bent down and pressed his forehead against Rhaego's snout. He closed his eyes for one moment.

Then he straightened, grabbed the podao from the ground, and turned to face the wave of enemy soldiers rolling toward him.

He led his heavy cavalry into it, fighting hard, carving out a path.

Rhaego struggled to his feet. He shook his wings and scattered a spray of blood.

His wounds were too severe for flight. He couldn't do anything but walk, step by step across the ground, sheltered by the heavy cavalry on all sides, falling back toward Three Peaks.

Viserion and Drogon dove from altitude and flanked him, one on each side.

Drogo's forces fought the whole way back.

The podao's edge had been notched long ago. He shook out his aching wrist and glanced back. His cavalry's armor was plastered with blood. Every patch of ground their horses crossed was stained dark red.

They fought until the light died. The setting sun bled across the sky, and the ground below was carpeted with bodies.

A rough count: tens of thousands at minimum.

9 in 10 were soldiers from Mogo's coalition. Drogo's casualties were few by comparison, but his men were so exhausted they could barely raise their arms.

Didn't matter how good the armor was. After a full day of slaughter with dozens of jin of iron strapped to your body, even Drogo — even with the Black Dragon's battle-will coursing through him — was nearly done.

Some men tore off their helmets, sweat and blood streaming together down their faces. Others drove their blades into the earth and hung there with both hands on the hilts, just trying to breathe.

After they pulled back to the mountain, Drogo gave the order immediately: cavalry dismounts, defensive formation, right here.

Supply wagons were pushed to the front line. Wheels were wedged with stones, wagons chained together with iron links. Spearmen crouched behind the wagons. Archers stood in the second rank. Sword-and-shield fighters covered the flanks.

A rough camp, but solid. It went up fast.

From the coalition camp in the distance, horns called back and forth without stop.

The khals sent in their fresh cavalry, soldiers who had rested the full day. Hoofbeats rolled across the grassland like muffled thunder.

It didn't matter. They were either turned back by arrow volleys or beaten back by Drogo's foot soldiers, who had been killing all day and still hit harder than men had any right to.

7 assaults over the following days. 7 times they were repelled.

But a frontal assault had never been Mogo's real aim.

His strategy had only ever been one thing: trap Drogo and let him wither.

The charges of the past few days hadn't been his idea. He'd tried to stop them, but none of the other khals would listen.

Then he thought about it, and let them go.

Let them throw themselves at Drogo. Let Drogo bleed them out. Urgo, Morako, all those fools howling about eating dragon leg and riding the green one, let them go die.

The harder they charged, the more of them fell. The fewer khalasars standing when the war ended, the clearer his own road to Khal of Khals.

His own khalasar had spent every one of those days digging.

Tens of thousands of men worked at the base of Three Peaks, gouging out the earth. The trenches ran 1 zhang wide and 8 chi deep, ring after ring circling the mountain, coiling around it like great pythons pulling it tight.

Drogo stood at the summit and stared down at them. The trenches were growing deeper by the day.

He knew exactly how many days their provisions would last. But food wasn't the true problem.

Water was.

His soldiers were already down to 3 sips per man per day. Their lips were cracked and bleeding. The warhorses scraped at the ground with their hooves, desperate for any moisture at all.

Break out. They had to break out.

But Rhaego...

➤ Next: Hold Steady! We Can Turn This Around