GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 125 - Wight — Ygritte

Drogo sat at the center of the painted table chamber, in the only chair.

Daenerys stood at his right.

"Barristan Selmy." Drogo's voice carried a note of reproach. "During the war, you imprisoned two of my commanders and plunged Dragonstone into crisis."

The atmosphere in the hall shifted the moment those words landed.

Daenerys moved forward half a step and spoke in his defense. "You arrived months late. Even if Nimiz had been in command the whole time, the outcome wouldn't have been much different."

Nimiz stood at the lower left. He'd spent the entire evening airing grievances until his throat had gone raw.

"It would have been different, Khaleesi." He gulped down some water, but his voice stayed hoarse. "If he hadn't sunk all my ships, I could have fought my way back out. We never would have been besieged at all. The fighting on the island wouldn't have gone so badly either — we were nearly wiped out. If you hadn't arrived on dragonback when you did..."

Jorah Mormont stood beside Nimiz, still in his armor. "We would still have been surrounded by Joffrey's superior numbers. But believe me, Khaleesi — if we hadn't been detained, the battle would have been far more manageable."

He glanced at Barristan as he said it.

Barristan stood by the chamber door. Blood was still seeping through the wound on his left arm.

Drogo was quiet for a few seconds.

"You value a knight's honor too highly, Barristan. You put my army in peril. All those well-trained soldiers, dead for nothing — because of your scrap of glory and your incompetent command."

He paused.

"I should have you executed."

Barristan's shoulders moved slightly at that. He steadied himself a moment later.

"However," Drogo said, "you did hold the island. You will sit in a cell for exactly as long as you imprisoned Nimiz. When you come out, your only duty will be protecting Daenerys. I forbid you from ever touching military affairs again."

Barristan said nothing. The old knight dipped his head slightly and accepted the sentence.

Daenerys frowned. "No. Lock up Ser Barristan and the Lannisters will laugh themselves sick. Once word spreads, who would dare come to our side?"

Drogo leaned back in his chair, his face blank. "No one will come to our side."

He turned toward Wodevar Tamad and lifted his chin. "You tell them."

Wodevar stepped forward.

"Myrcella Baratheon and Trystane Martell of Dorne have already wed, ahead of schedule." His voice was quiet but precise. "Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, has married the prettiest of Walder Frey's daughters."

No one in the hall spoke. Even Nimiz kept his mouth shut.

"Roose Bolton, Warden of the North, has also taken a Frey girl." Wodevar smiled faintly. "The fattest one. These houses are bound together now, kin by marriage, tied at the hip."

He continued. "Petyr Baelish has married into the Eyrie. He is a Lannister creature, and the knights of the Vale were the backbone of the forces that fought against Rhaegar."

Drogo listened. His face gave nothing away.

"In the North, Stannis Baratheon has retaken Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin from the ironborn. The Night's Watch claims neutrality in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, but their sympathies clearly lie with Stannis. They have a wildling army numbering in the thousands."

Wodevar raised his head and looked at Drogo, then at Daenerys.

"There are northern houses that refuse to bend the knee to Roose Bolton and have no desire to swear to Stannis either. But if you march an army onto Westerosi soil, they will stand with Joffrey Baratheon."

Drogo leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Read Prince Doran Martell's letter. I had thought Dorne would stand with us, the Lannister soldiers raped and murdered his sister, and killed his two nephews."

Wodevar drew the rolled parchment from his sleeve, unfurled it, and read aloud: "I will kill the men in iron clothes! I will tear down their stone houses! I will rape their women! I will make their children our slaves!"

Jorah lowered his head and stared at the toes of his boots. His expression looked like someone had just slapped him across the face.

Drogo glanced at him. His voice was flat. "Those are the words I spoke at Vaes Dothrak when I swore the oath to march west. Those are the words I spoke when I promised Daenerys the Iron Throne."

"Because of Ser Jorah, those words have traveled to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. No one will come to our side."

He tilted his head.

Belwas and Batista stepped forward from either side and took hold of Barristan Selmy.

The old knight didn't struggle. He didn't even speak. He simply let them walk him out of the hall.

At that moment, Captain Mero of the Second Sons came through the main door.

He glanced in the direction Barristan was being taken, then stepped aside to clear the way.

Behind him was Prendahl na Ghezn. Behind Prendahl, several soldiers were hauling something.

The woman's hair hung over her shoulders like a clump of dead moss.

A few loose strands clung to her ashen cheeks. Beneath the skin, faint blue-black veins traced their way along her cheekbones and temples.

Her eyes were ice-blue. No pupils. No focus. Just a cold light flickering somewhere deep inside them.

A wound gaped on the side of her neck, the edges peeled outward, exposing the gray, rotted muscle fiber beneath.

Iron chains ran from her neck down to her wrists. Her arms were bound behind her back. The chains were knotted across her chest, looped twice around her waist. Even so, the 4 mercenaries holding her were struggling.

She kept thrashing, lunging forward, snapping at the air. The chains rattled. The mercenary gripping her left arm stumbled a step, nearly dragged off his feet.

Then she wrenched herself backward. The movement was completely uncontrolled, her joints cracked in the wrong direction, a grinding sound, like she was trying to tear her own arms out of their sockets.

Her howls bounced off the stone walls of the painted table chamber and didn't stop. The sound drilled into the ears.

Daenerys instinctively stepped back half a pace, one hand closing around the back of Drogo's chair.

Nimiz had gone rigid. "Shit," he said. "What the fuck is that thing? It's dead and it's still moving?"

Wodevar had seen plenty of bloodshed. But a corpse, struggling, howling, dragging against iron chains, being hauled into a room was beyond anything in his experience. He backed away several steps until he reached the far end of the table.

The mercenaries holding the wight had it worst of all. The youngest one had gone white. He'd turned his head away and wouldn't look at her face.

Drogo hadn't moved from his chair.

He looked into those ice-blue eyes. Then at the gaping wound on her neck.

"A wight," Drogo said slowly.

Prendahl na Ghezn spoke. "This is the Ygritte you were looking for."

➤ Next: The War Has Begun