GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 126 - The War Has Begun

Drogo had known many women.

Sansa Stark was like porcelain in winter, pale, delicate, speaking in soft whispers, walking as though she might crack the floor beneath her feet.

She would bow her head before you, lowering those doe eyes, waiting for you to speak first. She would say "my lord" and "as you wish," every word perfectly proper.

Margaery Tyrell had a lovely smile and words dipped in honey. She could wrap anyone around her finger without them noticing.

Scarlett and Missandei were both courteous and completely deferential to Drogo.

The women raised in these civilized worlds were too alike. Proper, obedient, wearing fitting smiles, even the angle at which they bowed their necks nearly identical.

They would not argue with you. Would not shout at you. Even their anger came with a smile.

He loved Ygritte's wildness.

She knew nothing of court etiquette. Didn't know to kneel before a king. Didn't use honorifics.

If she didn't like the look of you, she'd open her mouth and curse you out. If she was happy, she'd grin wide, showing a set of not-quite-straight teeth.

He had even imagined it, the two of them bickering.

She'd stand before him with her hands on her hips, that wild tangle of red hair blazing like fire, grey-blue eyes fixed on him, and the moment she opened her mouth it would be a sharp "Who do you think you are, just because you're a Khal?"

He'd lean back in his chair. They'd argue it out. She'd probably kick the chair leg when she was done, turn and walk out, then come back a few steps later to add something even more cutting.

That would have been something else entirely.

So now, looking at the wight chained in the hall, bound in iron, no longer capable of speech, his chest went hollow for a moment.

She was alive and he never got to have a single argument with her. What a shame.

Prendahl na Ghezn's voice pulled the distracted Drogo back. "The Night's Watch is short on men. I traded 100 slaves to get this wight from them. They were going to burn it."

Jorah Mormont frowned. "The Night's Watch? How could they possibly accept slaves?"

"The Lord Commander is Jon Snow. He freed those slaves first, then 'forced' them to join the Watch."

Prendahl spread his hands, a note of amusement in his voice. "This new Lord Commander does things differently. On my way back I also heard he let several thousand wildlings through the Wall, including over 200 giants."

He shifted his gaze to Jorah, lowering his voice half a degree. "By the way — how did they eulogize your father? 'We shall never see his like again.'"

Jorah went still.

"What?"

"Oh. You didn't know yet."

Jorah's voice changed. Something seemed lodged in his throat. "How did he die?"

"He led an expedition north of the Wall. Mutiny on the march, killed by his own men." Prendahl paused. "But Jon Snow has already avenged him. Raided the mutineers' camp and slaughtered the traitors."

Jorah lowered his head. His throat worked.

Daenerys was staring at the wight, her face drained white. Her voice came out unsteady. "I remember in a dream... one of its kind killed Viserion."

"The day you were born from fire," Drogo said, "I held you in the bath and you told me that dream. That's why I sent men to investigate north of the Wall." He paused. "I never expected it to be true."

Prendahl opened his mouth, clearly disagreeing. He barely got started before Drogo cut him off.

Drogo pressed his left hand to his forehead, his tone suddenly sharp. "Burn it. Take it out and burn it." No room for argument.

Prendahl had no choice. He turned and walked out with the wight. The mercenaries dragged the chains, hauling her toward the door.

Her feet scraped against the stone floor with a grating sound. Those ice-blue eyes stayed fixed on the hall until she was gone.

Drogo called out to Mero, the Bastard of Titan.

"The Second Sons, the Stormcrows, and the Company of the Cat, move out immediately. Land along the Claw coast and burn the villages. Make a show of it."

"Brown Ben of the Stormcrows and the captain of the Company of the Cat aren't here."

"I'll send word to them. If you get the chance, try for Rook's Rest. Whatever plunder you take is yours to keep."

Mero nodded. "As you command, Khal."

After Mero left, Drogo moved on.

"Nimitz, take the fleet and attack King's Landing."

"As you command, Khal!" Nimitz said.

Jorah raised his head. He pushed his father's death down somewhere he could deal with later. His voice was steady again.

"Stannis's fleet was burned to ash in Blackwater Bay by wildfire. A direct assault on King's Landing is not a wise choice."

Nimitz was dismissive. "We have the dragon flame air force. I can guarantee — as long as the dragons cooperate — it's foolproof."

Jorah shook his head. "The dragons are still too small. Too precious. We cannot risk them."

Drogo found himself agreeing on that point. He looked at Jorah. "Then where should I strike?"

"Wait five more years. Let the dragons grow. Then move on King's Landing."

Drogo's face darkened. "I've marched my entire army all the way here and you want me to wait five years? We can fight without dragons."

"We don't attack King's Landing, but we strike everywhere else first. Dragonstone and Driftmark alone aren't enough." Jorah moved to the war table and put his finger on the map. "Right now we take the Claw. Rook's Rest, Maidenpool, Antlers, Duskendale, Rosby, all of it.

"To the south, Massey's Hook and Stonedance. A pincer from north and south. Cut off their land reinforcements. Trap King's Landing as an isolated city."

He looked up at Drogo. "But five or six thousand mercenary swords won't take five cities on the Claw. If the Khal permits, I'll lead a force of riders out from Dragonstone and sweep the peninsula clean."

Drogo studied the map. His finger traced a slow circle around King's Landing, then came to rest on the Claw.

"I agree to a combined land and sea advance. But King's Landing is the primary target." He glanced at Nimitz. "I'll ride a dragon to support you in the naval battle."

Nimitz grinned. "With the Khal's dragon in the sky, Blackwater Bay is just a fishpond. We scoop up whatever we want."

Drogo didn't reply.

He turned and looked out to sea. The sky had fully brightened. The eastern water caught the copper-red light of morning.

The wind off Blackwater Bay rolled in from the distance, lifting white waves against the rocks below Dragonstone.

The war room emptied one by one. Footsteps, the scrape of armor, low murmurs, all of it fading into the depths of the corridor.

Before long, a long horn call sounded from the sea. Nimitz's flagship pulled slowly away from the dock, a line of warships stretching out behind it.

The war had begun.

Drogo took one last look at the sea, then turned and left the war room. His footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridor, each one steady and deep as a war drum.

➤ Next: You Must Do Something for the Family, After All