GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 132 - I Am a Barbarian
Storm's End had never been breached.
Until today.
Drogo stood in the great hall of the tower, the Baratheon battle standard beneath his boots.
Gold field, orange flames encircling a charging stag, that ring of fire had been added after Stannis converted to the Lord of Light. The banner was crumpled into a ball, its edges scorched where dragonfire had kissed the cloth.
The tower hall was absurdly vast. Granaries, barracks, armories, great hall, guest chambers, the lord's own bedchamber, all of it fit inside with room to spare. The stone walls were hung with the banners and weapons of Baratheon lords through the ages, faded and worn, yet still carrying the cold austerity of old nobility. Torches sat in iron rings. Blue-gray smoke climbed the black stone dome and gathered at the heights into a thin, drifting haze.
Drogo pulled off his helm and handed it to the bloodrider beside him.
The blood on his Valyrian steel armor had dried to dark purple patches, clinging to the rippled grain of the steel. He stood on the banner. The mud from his boots printed across the stag's face.
Wodevar Tamad held an old book pulled from the lord's chambers, frowning as he flipped through a few pages. "Khal, legend says there are spells woven into the walls of this castle — meant to ward against magic."
Daenerys's tone was flat. "Yet my dragons broke through with ease."
Standing in the hall was a captive of no low birth. He wore a rough gray coat, the collar worn white at the fold, shoulders slightly hunched, hands hanging before him, fingers unconsciously working the hem of his coat.
Edric Storm. The only bastard Robert Baratheon had ever acknowledged.
At Stannis's wedding, Robert had bedded Delena, the bridesmaid, on the newlyweds' marriage bed. One night's pleasure had left behind this child.
He had none of a nobleman's arrogance. Maybe his bastard status had taught him to bow his head from childhood. Maybe it was because right now he was a prisoner of the enemy.
He stood respectfully. "I don't know whether dragonfire counts as magic. My lord." A pause. "No, Your Grace."
"I only know they say Storm's End is the strongest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. So long as supplies hold, ten thousand men inside can hold off a hundred thousand."
Edric Storm stepped forward half a pace. His back straightened. His voice held steady enough.
"Khal Drogo, your army is mighty, but the Stormlands need a lord to help you govern. I am the trueborn son of Robert Baratheon, "
"You are the bastard sired by the Usurper." Daenerys cut him off. Her voice was quiet, but every word landed like a fire-hardened nail. "I should have your head struck off. My brother Rhaegar died at his hands."
Wodevar Tamad was crouched by the wall. He looked up at that and let out a cold laugh. "How dare you ask to govern Storm's End? Even if our Khaleesi were feeling generous, by right it would pass to Stannis. When would it ever be your turn?"
Edric wasn't cowed. He turned to Drogo. "Stannis is a rebel. He will never submit to your rule."
He added, "To my knowledge, the Dothraki have no concept of bastardry."
"And what of it?" Drogo said. "Make you a lord, so you can find your moment and rise against me later?"
Edric shook his head. "No, Khal. I would be loyal to you."
"Have you heard how I govern Slaver's Bay?"
Edric opened his mouth. He hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Khal."
"Wodevar. Tell him."
Wodevar still had the old book in his hand. He put on no airs. His tone was flat, like a man reading out an official document.
"Khal Drogo does not intend to keep lords to rule in his stead. He intends for all men to answer directly to him. The Stormlands will no longer have a Lord of Storm's End."
"Officials will be appointed to govern. A Governor handles civil administration, finances, taxation, and household registries. An Inspector handles justice, oversight, and criminal courts. A Commander handles military administration and local defense."
He looked Edric in the eye and said each word with deliberate weight.
"There will be no more Seven Kingdoms."
Edric Storm's composure cracked. His voice climbed several pitches.
"That's impossible! Without lords to help you rule, your kingdom will do nothing but fight endless wars. Lords are thousands of years of Westerosi tradition. You must abide by our customs."
Drogo watched him, urgent, aggrieved, a man who looked like he'd just lost something. The corner of his mouth moved. "Why do you have the look of a man who's lost the Stormlands?" he said, neither warm nor cold. "They were never yours to begin with."
Edric bit his lip. He steadied himself, forced his voice down, though it still trembled.
"Because there is no one left more qualified than I to inherit Storm's End."
He pressed on. "Others call you Dothraki savages, but you have enough Westerosi around you to know the truth, Joffrey is a bastard born of incest between Lannister brother and sister. He doesn't even carry Baratheon blood."
He turned and looked at Daenerys.
"Rhaegar and my father dueled on the Trident. One against one. A fair fight. That was no murder." His eyes came back to Drogo. "Let me govern the Stormlands. I will help you take the Seven Kingdoms. I am the most qualified heir."
He finished. His chest still heaved. His eyes fixed on Drogo, waiting for a verdict.
Drogo didn't speak right away. He studied Edric for a few seconds, then laughed, a short huff through the nose, edged with mockery, the kind of laugh you give a fool.
"The most qualified heir? Inheriting from my hand?" He shook his head. "I don't acknowledge you as my son."
The laugh faded. His expression went cold and hard.
"I said I wouldn't kill you, and now you push your luck, coming to demand Storm's End from me? Sacking cities is what savages do. I don't sack cities." He paused. "I ship you all to Meereen as slaves."
Edric Storm's face finally changed. He stepped back half a pace, voice tight. "No. You cannot do this. The Seven Kingdoms have had no slavery for ages."
Drogo said, with complete seriousness, "I am a barbarian."
Then he waved his hand.
Two Unsullied stepped forward and seized Edric by the arms, one on each side.
Edric struggled. His boot soles scraped across the stone floor with a piercing SCREECH. "No — no! Khal! I pledge my loyalty—"
Drogo turned his head and accepted the clay pot a Storm's End servant was holding out to him. He didn't spare Edric another glance. An ant like that wasn't worth one more second.
The servant's voice trembled. "Khal... this is... pig kidney stewed with softshell turtle..."
Drogo lifted the lid. Steam rushed his face, thick with the fragrance of medicinal herbs and meat broth.
Westerosi didn't eat offal, but for Drogo this was essential. The day's battle had drained him, and tonight another kind of battle was waiting. He raised the pot and took a long pull. Scalding broth slid down his throat.
With dragons, taking Storm's End hadn't been all that hard.
Drogon had dove from the battlements. The dragonfire was still burning when Drogo leaped from the dragon's back into the smoke below.
He had felt the dragon's pulse beating in his own veins.
The black dragon's battle-lust lent every swing of his blade bone-shattering force. The green dragon's vitality let him leap from the saddle and cut down man after man without drawing a single breath. The pale gold dragon's perception told him, before he even turned, that someone behind him had raised a sword.
The defenders on the walls fell like wheat before the scythe, collapsing in swaths.
The crossbowmen were either burned to charcoal by Drogon's black dragonfire or hacked down by Drogo himself. No more arrows fell from the battlements. No more rolling stones.
Rhaegal and Viserion landed on the ground and breathed fire on the gate. Emerald green and golden-red flames twisted together. The iron-plated gate melted and collapsed like candle wax.
Grey Worm gave a single command. The Unsullied surged through the breach, long spears driving forward.
In the courtyard of Storm's End, the last ring of steel echoed out.
Then silence.
➤ Next: The Lord of Light Actually Delivers