GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 146 - Buying Bronn

Horn calls echoed along the walls of Storm's End, one after another, east tower to west tower, gate to rear courtyard, scattering the morning mist.

Drogo stood on the high ground outside the castle and looked out over the scene. It satisfied him.

The Dothraki riders had fed their horses and sharpened their arakhs to a gleaming edge. Bronze bells jingled in their braids. The Free Army pushed supply carts through the encampment, wheels grinding over gravel, soldiers with spears on their shoulders chewing leftover black bread from the night before, cursing and hollering at each other. Outside the castle's north gate, the Unsullied stood in a row, three thousand men like three thousand nails driven into the earth, not one of them moving. Grey Worm stood at the front, his face carrying as much expression as the stones on the wall behind him.

"You stay." Drogo looked at him. "Three thousand Unsullied. Hold Storm's End."

Grey Worm inclined his head. "As you command, Khal."

Drogo would lead ten thousand Dothraki and twenty thousand Free Army soldiers north to take Griffin's Roost.

He walked toward the godswood ruins first.

The three dragons were already awake, sprawled beside the horse carcasses left from last night. Drogon's black scales caught the morning light and threw back a dark red sheen. He was tearing into a horse, the bones cracking and splintering with each bite, the kind of sound that set your teeth on edge if you listened too long. Rhaegal and Viserion had dark red blood smeared across their mouths and claws, bits of shredded meat still clinging to them.

Drogo circled around to Drogon's side and checked the buckles on the plate armor.

The smiths had followed his instructions, leaving room for growth, fitting movable clasps and stretchable leather straps between the plates. But the straps were pulled taut as bowstrings now, the plate edges biting into the scales. Drogon's breathing was heavier than usual. The discomfort was written in every rise and fall of his chest.

"After this battle," Drogo muttered, "we melt it down and start over."

Drogon snorted. Agreement or complaint, hard to say.

The army still needed time to finish assembling. Drogo turned and headed back into the castle, down the stone steps, through the dim corridor hung with old tapestries.

The dungeons were at the lowest level of Storm's End, cold and damp, a few torches jammed into the stone walls, their light shifting with every draft.

At the end of the corridor, Podrick Payne sat on a pile of hay with his hands wrapped around his knees. No fear on his face. Just a vague bewilderment.

Drogo walked up to the iron bars. The key turned in the lock with a harsh screech of metal on metal.

Podrick looked up, froze, then scrambled to his feet and offered an awkward bow. "L-Lord?"

"Come out," Drogo said.

Podrick hesitated, then stepped out of the cell. He brushed the straw from his clothes, head down, not sure what was coming.

Drogo looked at him. Podrick's face was flushed, his lips a little cracked, but his eyes were bright, carrying a clumsy, unshakeable kind of loyalty.

"You're going back to King's Landing."

Podrick's head snapped up, eyes full of confusion.

"Find Shae," Drogo said. "Tell her Tyrion is at Storm's End. Bring her here."

"I... I go fetch her?"

"Tyrion is here alone. You bring her to him."

"...Alright," Podrick said. Then, as if one word felt too short, he added, "I'll find her."

Drogo unfastened a small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it over. It landed in Podrick's arms with a heavy clink of coin.

"Travel money," Drogo said. "Don't starve to death on the road."

He turned and walked toward the other end of the corridor.

There was still one more person waiting.

Bronn leaned against the cell wall, one leg bent, hand resting on his knee, looking more like a man waiting for his meal at a tavern than someone locked in a dungeon. A faint half-smile sat at the corner of his mouth. When he saw Drogo coming, he didn't stand. Didn't flinch.

Drogo stopped outside the bars and looked at him.

Bronn was the wiry kind. Not an inch of spare flesh on him, every muscle sitting exactly where it needed to be for killing. His hand lay easy on his knee.

"Work for me," Drogo said.

Bronn didn't answer right away. He studied Drogo, something calculating moving through those dark eyes.

"I suppose I don't have much choice. Refuse, and I imagine my head stops being attached to my neck."

"You're a sellsword. It's all about the coin. I'll pay you."

"What do you need done?" Bronn asked.

"I want you to go north. Last Hearth. Find Rickon Stark and bring him safely back to Storm's End."

"The North?" Bronn said. "There's still fighting up there. The Boltons, the Baratheon remnants, wildlings..."

"That's why I'm asking you."

Bronn thought for a moment. "Rickon Stark. The youngest Stark boy. Wasn't he supposed to be dead?"

"He's not dead," Drogo said. "He's at the Last Hearth. Find him. Bring him back."

"Find him," Bronn said, "and whether it gets done or not, I still get paid. Short me one silver coin and I'll kill you."

The corner of Drogo's mouth lifted.

"You're not afraid of me?"

"Afraid," Bronn said. "But more afraid of being broke."

Drogo pulled a larger leather pouch from inside his coat and tossed it over. Bronn caught it one-handed, weighed it. His eyes lit up.

"Down payment," Drogo said. "The rest when you bring him back."

Bronn grinned, showing that row of crooked yellow teeth.

"Done."

Drogo walked out of the dungeons.

The army had finished assembling.

He swung himself onto Drogon's back. Drogon spread his wings and beat them hard. Sand and loose stones swept across the ground in a swirling rush. Rhaegal and Viserion rose close behind.

3 dragon shadows swept over the castle walls. Grey Worm's Unsullied phalanx didn't move a muscle.

Drogo raised his head and looked south.

Griffin's Roost was in that direction. The Dornishmen and the Stormlands lords were gathering there in secret, convinced their plan was airtight.

They didn't know yet that Kevan's northern army had already been destroyed.

They were still waiting for the signal.

The people at Griffin's Roost weren't blind. The Dornish and Stormlands coalition would have placed scouts along the route to track his movements. Drogo swept past at 300 feet. A dragon's eyes were sharp enough to pick out a rabbit's trail on the ground below.

The first scout sat beneath a dead oak, spear cradled in his arms, fast asleep.

Drogo gave Drogon's neck a light pat. Drogon folded his wings and dove without a sound. Claws spread wide. In the instant the scout heard the wind and opened his eyes, he was scooped off the ground whole.

The second scout was tucked behind a boulder pile at the edge of a wheat field, half his head poking out to peer around. He never thought to look up.

Rhaegal was faster. He came in from the side, seized the back of the man's neck in his jaws, lifted him like a cat grabbed by the scruff, and flung him into the creek below.

The third scout was galloping hard along the main road. Viserion hit him and the horse together. Bone cracked. The horse screamed. They hit the ground like a sack of wet meat.

Drogo didn't look back.

By the time the first dark red stone of Griffin's Roost's tower came into view, 5 or 6 scouts lay scattered in the fields behind him.

The wind came off Shipbreaker Bay, carrying salt and brine. Drogo narrowed his eyes. In the distance, that massive dark red rock jutted up from the coastal cliffs, the castle's tower crouched on the stone like a great eagle waiting to strike.

Sea on three sides. Land on one.

The coalition was in there, waiting for him.

They still didn't know that every eye they'd sent out was already gone.

Drogo ran his hand along Drogon's spine. The scales were warm beneath his palm.

➤ Next: The Horse Lord's Troop Strength