GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 148 - The Griffin's Throat

Griffin's Roost stood on a towering slab of dark-red rock along the coast of Cape Wrath.

The castle itself wasn't large, but its position was brutally defensible. Three sides were open sea, waves hammering the base of the rock day and night, churning up white foam. On the inland side, a single narrow natural ridge connected the castle to the mainland.

The locals called it the Griffin's Throat. Five, maybe six men could walk it abreast. Steep cliffs dropped away on both sides, and the reefs below would finish anyone the fall didn't.

A gate stood at the landward end. At the other end were the castle's main gate and two round towers. A well-supplied garrison could hold that choke point against twenty times their number.

Drogo rode Drogon in a slow circle 800 feet above the castle, eyes sweeping the ground below.

On the open ground outside the Griffin's Throat, the combined forces of Dorne and the Stormlands had already deployed. Dornish spearmen stood in dense phalanxes, shields overlapping, spearpoints bristling outward. Their light cavalry prowled both flanks, javelins in hand, ready to move. The knights of the Stormlands held the center, mounted on tall warhorses, battle banners snapping in the wind.

They'd been waiting here for days, growing more frustrated by the hour. No word had come from Kevan Lannister's northern army. Over in the Reach, the three-way alliance of Tyrell, Martell, and Lannister had thrown itself at Drogo's Dothraki again and again and gained nothing. Several hard battles, and no one had managed to push the Khal's forces back into the Stormlands. The three-pronged encirclement had come to nothing.

So they'd stopped waiting. They would probe from the south, test the enemy's strength. Fight if they could. Retreat if they couldn't.

The dragons flew slowly, almost gliding. Their three shadows swept across the allied formation one after another, and each pass sent a ripple of unease through the ranks below. Soldiers glanced up. Hands tightened on weapons. Palms were sweating.

The Dothraki cavalry were close enough now to make out individual silhouettes, 10,000 warhorses advancing at a steady walk. The Free Army was still far behind, 20,000 infantry dragging supply wagons and siege engines, left in the dust.

Drogo had wanted to hit them before they were ready. As it turned out, the Dorne-Stormlands coalition had already decided to hit first.

Someone was more impatient than he was.

From 800 feet up, Drogo watched the Dornish cavalry break from their formation.

Their horsemanship was excellent. Bodies forward, almost flat against their horses' necks, yellow silk tunics plastered against their breastplates by the wind, lances leveled. The Stormlands knights hesitated for barely a heartbeat, then followed.

Drogo patted Drogon's neck. Drogon began to spiral down.

He landed in front of the Dothraki line and dropped from the saddle. Drogon crouched behind him, wings half-spread, those coal-red eyes locked on the cavalry thundering in from across the field.

"Pass the order," Drogo said. "Cavalry, fall back."

Captain Akka blinked. "Khal?"

"Fall back. Let them chase."

The Dothraki horns sounded. One long, low note, like a wounded animal crying out in the dark. Drogo had designed that call specifically for this — nothing like the charge signal, nothing that could be mistaken for one.

Ten thousand Dothraki wheeled and ran.

The Dornish took the bait faster than Drogo had expected.

The moment they saw the Dothraki "fleeing," their cavalry lit up. Javelins arced high and came down in clusters, punching into the earth where the Dothraki had just been, shafts quivering in the dirt. The Dornish cavalry bit down on the Dothraki tail like a provoked snake and chased — farther, deeper, faster.

The Dornish and the Stormlands knights tangled together as they pursued. Order loosened. Formations scattered. Some squads charged so hard they broke away from the main body entirely.

None of them noticed that the Dothraki, in the middle of their "retreat," were quietly splitting apart, peeling off into two streams.

The Free Army's phalanxes appeared on the horizon ahead.

The 10,000 Dothraki who had just been running turned. Both flanks, simultaneously.

Their horses had been held at a controlled pace the entire time. Barely any stamina spent. Now the order changed from fall back to charge, and 10,000 warhorses surged forward at once, arakhs raised, sweeping in from both sides.

The Dorne-Stormlands coalition was caught in the middle.

Ahead: 20,000 Free Army spearmen, packed tight, spearpoints like a forest, an iron wall with no gaps. On both flanks: Dothraki arakhs closing in, the encirclement tightening with every stride.

Drogo swept Drogon low over the rear of the allied formation. Dragonfire rolled along the ground.

On the faces of the allied commanders, anger curdled into fear.

The Stormlands knights tried to punch through the flanks. The Dothraki didn't rush them. First came the arrows, wave after wave pouring in from both sides, shredding their formations. Only when the ranks were torn apart did the Dothraki spur forward and finish the work with their arakhs.

The front rank of Dornish lancers hit the Free Army's first line. They punched through, skewered a few spearmen. Then a dozen spears drove up into the horses' bellies. The second horse crashed in. The third. Bodies piled on bodies.

The horses behind them tried to turn before they even reached the line. It didn't matter. The Dothraki on the flanks had already sealed every exit.

The coalition's battle line broke.

A few men threw down their weapons and ran. Then dozens. Then it became a flood, a vast spreading rout pouring in every direction. The Dothraki had already circled to their rear. There was nowhere left to go.

Drogo swept low on Drogon, dragonfire raking the ground, scattering every knot of soldiers that tried to regroup. Rhaegal and Viserion worked the flanks. The three dragons took turns, and the battlefield burned into long black corridors of fire.

The coalition charged again and again, trying to carve out a gap. Every charge was thrown back. Every charge cost more men. Their command structure was gone — commanders couldn't find their soldiers, soldiers couldn't find their commanders. No one was giving orders. No one was following them. Everyone had stopped fighting and started surviving.

Then the coalition's infantry arrived.

They came in gasping, armor askew, shields banging against their hips. They'd run hard to reach the battle.

What they found wasn't victory. Their cavalry was nearly gone. The center of the field was heaped with the bodies of men and horses. Three dragons circled low overhead like vultures waiting for the last thing to stop moving.

Drogo wheeled Drogon around and dove at the infantry.

Infantry were easy. No speed. No shock. They couldn't even outrun horses when they fled. One breath from Drogon and a dozen men became torches.

Fewer than 3,000 made it through the gate of the Griffin's Throat alive.

They packed onto that narrow stone ridge, shoving and clawing toward the castle. The gate ground down behind them and caught the last few stragglers who hadn't made it through, crushing them flat.

The gates of Griffin's Roost were shut.

The men on the walls had watched all of it. The valiant charge. The slaughter. Every step of it.

Now the Griffin's Throat was packed with defenders. A thousand men crammed onto a ridge that could barely fit six abreast, shields stacked on shields, spearpoints facing out, braced for a last stand. Behind them stood the main gate and the two round towers. Scorpions were already mounted on the walls. Arrows jutted from between the battlements.

Drogo brought Drogon down at the landward entrance to the Griffin's Throat.

Drogon breathed. The gate burned open.

Then the fire swept along the ridge. In a space that narrow, there was nowhere to go.

The three dragons took turns. The stone ridge became a river of fire.

Men jumped. The cliffs on both sides dropped straight down to the reefs, and the reefs didn't care.

Arrows and javelins clattered off the dragons' hides and fell away. The defenders held as long as they could, then broke and ran for the castle.

➤ Next: Tearing Down Castles