GOT: Khal — Chapter 121 - Sword Aimed at Westeros

Daenerys watched the sailors moving across the deck and slowly began to speak.

"Once, on the voyage to Braavos, I watched the crew haul down a great green sail against the wind. I suddenly thought: what a fine thing it would be, to be a sailor."

Drogo leaned against the ship's rail and waited for her to go on.

"I told my brother. Viserys grabbed me by the hair. It hurt so much the tears nearly came."

She mimicked his tone from back then, rasping it out: "'You are the blood of the dragon! The dragon! Not some stinking fish!'"

"I cried my eyes out. I was six years old."

Drogo glanced toward the stern. "He can never hurt you again."

At the stern, Viserys was tethered to the rail. Both his hands and feet had been broken, so he could only crawl. An iron chain was locked around his neck, binding him there like a dog.

"He also blamed me for Rhaegar stealing the Stark girl," Daenerys went on. "Said I was born too late — otherwise I should have been married to Rhaegar myself."

"He said if Rhaegar could have found happiness with his own wife, he'd never have pursued the Stark girl, and Robert's rebellion would never have happened."

"That is twisted logic." Drogo stroked her face.

"I pushed back hard. I even told Viserys it should be his fault, because he wasn't born a girl — otherwise he could have married Rhaegar himself."

"And then? What did he say?"

"What did he say? He didn't say a word. He just hit me. For that insult, Viserys beat me black and blue."

Daenerys paused. "...Then why are you still taking him to Westeros?"

The corner of Drogo's mouth twisted into a rare, wickedly amused smile.

"I want to chain the great King Joffrey right next to him and watch the two of them fight."

Daenerys stared at him, blank-faced.

"Go see Viserys if you like." Drogo gestured toward the stern. "Rakharo and Missandei are there. Nothing to worry about."

Daenerys looked down at the baby in her arms. Rhaego was sleeping soundly. She patted his back gently, turned, and walked toward the stern.

A month ago, when Drogo became the sole Khal of the Dothraki Sea, it happened to fall on the first name day of Rhaego, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion.

It was a feast like no other.

The great hall of Meereen's palace was rearranged entirely. 200 long tables ran from inside the hall all the way out to the plaza beyond, covered in white linen and loaded with silver plates and golden cups.

The central table was carved from a single block of black ebony, wide enough to seat 30.

All 9 of the Free Cities sent delegations.

The Magister of Pentos came personally, bringing 10 full cartloads of olive oil and wine. The Magister of Braavos sent his eldest son, who arrived carrying a solid-gold statue of a galloping stallion.

The Triarch of Volantis presented a pair of white apes brought back from Sothoryos, locked in gilded cages and shrieking without pause.

Even New Ghis and Qarth showed up, the same cities that had allied with the Great Masters against Drogo — completely shameless about it.

The New Ghis envoy was a bald old man. The moment he walked in he bent nearly double, raised a chest of jade and jewels above his head, and kept repeating "Congratulations to the Khal" over and over.

The Qartheen were more direct. They simply led in 13 pure-white horses, their manes braided with gold and silver thread, their horseshoes forged from solid silver.

Drogo sat at the head of the table with an expressionless face, accepting each city's tribute with an occasional nod.

Daenerys sat at his right hand with Rhaego in her arms. The little one had just learned to walk. He wore a tiny Dothraki leather vest and clutched a silver bell in his fist, banging it against the table every few minutes.

On the spot, Drogo named Magister Illyrio his Master of Coin.

The envoys from the neighboring Free Cities exchanged glances, envy plain on every face. Fiscal authority over the Dothraki Sea. An enormous prize.

Then he issued 151 Trade Passes.

Each pass was written on fine vellum, stamped with a black-dragon wax seal, and signed by Drogo himself along the edge. Any caravan that carried one could travel the Dothraki Sea freely, without fear of being raided.

The truth was, after sweeping away every other khal and unifying the Dothraki Sea, the first thing Drogo had done was ride back to Vaes Dothrak.

He stood before the whole city and made one announcement: this is mine now.

Then he pulled large numbers of craftsmen from Slaver's Bay and put them to work. By the time he was done, the holy city had a grand shopping complex, a cargo transshipment center, and a chain of way-stations running through it.

The shopping complex was lined with shops covering everything from daily goods to luxury imports. The transshipment center handled loading, unloading, sorting, and temporary storage. The way-stations were laid out densely along every trade road, providing horse replacement, food and lodging, and rapid courier services, the full skeleton of a modern logistics network, transplanted onto the grasslands.

Using Vaes Dothrak as the hub, Drogo cut a trade road across the continent. West to Pentos, east to the shores of the Jade Sea, passing through the Dothraki grasslands, the Red Waste, and the Jade Mountains.

Caravans laden with silk, spices, gems, glass, wine, and fine horses flowed back and forth in an unbroken stream.

The merchants of the Free Cities called it the Dragon Road. Drogo gave it a more refined name: the Silk Road.

At the feast, he also signed trade agreements with the Magisters of the major Free Cities. The reasoning was simple. When the time came to push into Westeros, he couldn't rely on Slaver's Bay alone for supplies, too far. The reliable line ran through the Free Cities closest to Westeros: Pentos, Braavos, Lys, Norvos, Myr, Tyrosh. Near King's Landing, short sailing distances. The line would hold.

Wodev Tamade watched Daenerys disappear toward the stern, then stepped closer. "Khal, I advise you to kill the Beggar King soon. Better to cut the problem out now."

Drogo leaned against the rail, his braid swaying in the wind.

"When I was raiding in the East, I heard of a beggar called Chongba who later actually became a king. But Viserys is nothing like that. He's just a madman. No cunning. No brains."

He paused, his mouth pulling at one corner. "I've already broken both his hands and feet. I'd like to see someone help him open his meridians overnight and teach him the Dog-Beating Staff Technique before morning."

He said it deliberately, then studied Wodev's face, waiting for a reaction.

Unfortunately, Wodev's eyes were naturally cross-eyed, and his expression had been locked into permanent aggrieved misery since birth. There was nothing to read there. Drogo waited for the confused look that never came, and felt the joke die in the air.

"You are not a person of this world," Wodev said suddenly.

Drogo's heart lurched. He waited.

"You are a god of this world!" Wodev's face was completely sincere, his tone soaked in reverence. "The way you brought Slaver's Bay to heel. The vision it took to build the Silk Road. Your power on the battlefield. You are a living legend, Khal."

Drogo waved him off. He had no patience for this kind of flattery.

Just then, a dragon's shadow swept over the deck. Rhaegal, resting quietly at the bow, lifted his head and let out a hiss.

He was bound to Drogo by a life-bond, and his injuries had mended well.

"Easy." Drogo walked over and laid his hand along Rhaegal's snout. "A few more days," he said quietly. "Then you fly."

Rhaegal snorted and pushed his head deeper into Drogo's palm.

The wind filled the sails.

Over 1,000 ships stretched out in long columns across the sea, a black mass from one horizon to the other, too vast to take in at a glance. Warships held the outer ring, guarding the hundred-odd troop transports and supply ships packed in the center.

From every mast flew the three-headed dragon banner. Black field, red dragon, cracking hard in the sea wind.

On the decks, soldiers sharpened their blades. Sailors called out their work chants and hauled the lines.

Drogo stood at the bow of the flagship. One hand on his sword hilt. The other resting on the dragon's neck.

He looked toward Westeros.

➤ Next: Euron's Hunt