GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 137 - Three-Pronged Offensive — Face to Face

King's Landing. The Red Keep.

The throne room was colder than usual. High above, the stained glass windows cast a murky yellow light that sliced the hall into alternating bands of brightness and shadow.

The Iron Throne crouched like a metal beast, forged from a thousand melted enemy blades, every jagged barb still radiating unforgotten menace.

Joffrey Baratheon sat upon it, one leg crossed, his boot heel tapping lightly against the iron steps.

He had dressed for the occasion: deep crimson silk doublet, golden lion-head buttons fastened from collar to waist, a black satin cloak draped over his shoulders. With those golden curls, he did look the part of a king. Almost.

"Lady Ellaria." Joffrey's voice carried a carefully practiced gravity. "We received word of Prince Oberyn. I am sorry."

Ellaria Sand was Oberyn's paramour, not his wife. Joffrey used "Lady" anyway.

He paused, as if choosing his words. "He died fighting for the Seven Kingdoms. I shall forever remember his loyalty."

Ellaria inclined her head slightly.

She knew exactly what "loyalty" meant in this context. Joffrey was telling her that Dorne was not cooperating, it was obeying. She did not correct him. There was no point.

Margaery descended the steps beside the throne with a graceful stride. She wore a pale blue gown, golden roses embroidered along the hem, the whole effect like a flower in early summer. Her eyes were slightly downcast, her posture demure and mournful, but those brown eyes had already swept over Ellaria 3 times.

She approached and reached out, gently clasping Ellaria's wrist. "Prince Oberyn was a great warrior."

"Thank you," Ellaria said.

Cersei's voice was softer than Margaery's, but that softness carried a precisely measured distance.

"We are all grieving. Prince Oberyn was a remarkable warrior. His death is a loss to the entire realm." A brief pause. "Lady Ellaria, please accept our condolences."

Tyrion stood at the foot of the steps to the left of the throne. "Please convey my sorrow to Prince Doran. Prince Oberyn was a... remarkable man. His courage, his swordsmanship." He stopped, then started again. "He was a man very hard not to like — despite the fact that he always wanted to kill me. And every other Lannister."

Joffrey shot him a glance. Clearly displeased by the interruption. He did not lash out.

Mace Tyrell stood with his belly thrust forward, hands on his hips, wearing the expression of a man eager to speak who had no idea where to begin.

Ellaria nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, Queen Mother." Her face held no tears. Only a dry calm, like something baked by a scorching sun.

"Prince Doran asked me to deliver a message," she said. "His proposal: a three-pronged offensive."

Joffrey shifted in his seat. A barb on the Iron Throne caught the edge of his cloak and tore it. He didn't notice.

"First prong, the Reach. Dorne sends 20,000 men north to join the Tyrell army. Simultaneously, troops from the Westerlands move into the Reach to combine strength and drive Khal Drogo's main cavalry force out."

Mace immediately puffed out his chest. "The Reach is our land. I am most grateful that Prince Doran is willing to aid us."

"Second prong, the southern Stormlands." Ellaria continued without pause. "Crow's Nest, Griffin's Roost, Stonehelm — all of them answer to the Iron Throne. The Dornish army enters the Stormlands from the south and coordinates with those forces to assault Storm's End."

"Third prong, the Crownlands." She turned to Joffrey. "Prince Doran requests that Your Grace attack from the north. All three prongs strike at once. Drogo's dragons cannot be everywhere."

Joffrey rubbed his chin. He had recently begun to grow stubble, so he did this often.

"Drogo has 3 dragons," he said. "Not yet full-grown, but I hear they can already assault cities."

"Which is exactly why we cannot let them grow." Ellaria's voice did not change. "Prince Doran's plan is to crush them with numerical superiority while they are still young. 3 dragons can only appear on one battlefield at a time. With three prongs closing in, at least two will face no dragon at all. The dragons must be killed."

Tyrion frowned. "Kill dragons? Easier said than done. Since the Doom of Valyria, no one knows how to kill a dragon, except with another dragon."

Ellaria looked at him. "Then use scorpion bolts. Use spears. Dragons bleed, Lord Tyrion. When Rhaenys Targaryen rode Meraxes into Dorne, a long iron bolt from a scorpion pierced the dragon's eye. Meraxes and Rhaenys both perished."

Cersei cut in, cold and flat. "Assuming you can hit them."

Joffrey rose from the throne and took two steps forward, looking down at Ellaria from above. "Uncle Jaime must return to the Westerlands to command the army."

Jaime had been standing beside a pillar to the left of the throne the entire time. At Joffrey's words, he gave a slight nod.

Ellaria asked, "Who commands the Tyrell army?"

Mace said, "As you all know, Loras was gravely wounded at Dragonstone..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, had been gravely wounded in the assault on Dragonstone. Half his face crushed by falling stone. One eye might not be saved. He still lay in bed, kept numb by milk of the poppy.

"Ser Loras's bravery is known to all," Ellaria said. No mockery in her tone. If anything, a trace of genuine respect. "But Prince Doran believes House Tyrell must send another commander to lead the army."

Mace said, "I can certainly—"

"Father." Margaery's voice was quiet but final. "King's Landing needs you. The king needs you. The soldiers of the Reach need a commander who can ride and fight."

She lifted her head, that poised and proper smile settling back into place. "My eldest brother Willas will command the army of Highgarden."

Willas Tyrell was Mace's firstborn, heir to Highgarden. A childhood riding accident had left one leg crippled; he walked with a slight limp. His military ability had never truly been tested.

"And the Crownlands army?" Cersei asked. "Surely no one expects the king to lead the campaign himself."

The way she said it left no room for argument.

Joffrey opened his mouth, clearly about to say that he could lead the campaign himself, then caught Cersei's expression and swallowed the words.

He wasn't afraid of Cersei. He was afraid of dying.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "My uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, will take command."

Cersei considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Acceptable. Uncle Kevan is the most suitable choice."

Joffrey looked displeased. He had wanted to appoint someone himself. Everyone had simply moved past him. He settled back onto the Iron Throne, boot heel resuming its rhythm against the iron steps.

"Then it is settled," he said, his voice carrying that particular adolescent performance of authority. "Uncle Jaime returns to the Westerlands and leads the army into the Reach. Ser Kevan commands the Crownlands northern front. Dorne advances on the Stormlands from the south. All three prongs strike simultaneously."

Tyrion was quiet for a moment. "Doran's plan is meticulous. But meticulous plans share one flaw, they all assume the enemy will make mistakes. Khal Drogo makes very few."

"Then we will make him make one," Ellaria said.

➤ Next: They Are Kindling