GOT: The Great — Chapter 219 - The First Commander-in-Chief Takes Office

The banquet was set on the second floor of the Stone Drum Tower.

The long table was a relic from Aegon the Conqueror's era, its surface a single slab of black stone polished until it caught the shadows of candles. A gray cloth covered the table, tassels hanging from the edges. Four chairs were arranged: the east seat for Drogo, the west for Euron Greyjoy, Joanna and Nimiz seated north and south.

The servants brought crab and angel shark soup first. Iron bowls, white steam curling off the rims.

The angel shark had been stewed until it fell apart at the touch of chopsticks. The crabs were freshly pulled from the Dragonstone docks, their shells cracked open to show the yellow inside. Shredded ginger and scallions floated on the surface, and in the near-winter cold, the steam carried the smell of the sea straight into the nose.

Chilled egg and lime soup came second. Copper cups, their outsides beaded with condensation. The eggs had been beaten into the soup and the lime juice was freshly squeezed. The sourness shot straight up the throat and scoured away every trace of fishiness the crab soup had left on the tongue.

Euron Greyjoy sat at the west end. His right hand was wrapped in gauze from fingertips to elbow, wound tight. He used his left hand to work the spoon, carrying the cold soup to his mouth. The spoon clinked once against the rim. His blue lips came away wet. His hand was steady.

His left eye socket was covered with a gauze patch taped to his cheekbone, the center dipping inward into a hollow. Both ankles were wrapped as well, resting on the footrest beneath his chair.

Honeyed quail came next. Roasted to a deep golden brown, the skin brushed with honey that had baked over the fire into a thin, brittle shell. Euron tore off a leg with his left hand, bit into it, chewed twice, swallowed, and reached for a second.

Roast lamb chops were the fourth course. Oil still dripped from the rack, the fat roasted translucent, the edges charred black, fine bubbles sizzling across the surface. The meat was pink. When cut, juices ran out along the blade.

Red wine-soaked foie gras followed. The liver had been sliced and steeped in Dornish red, the wine's color bleeding into every grain of the meat.

Buttered turnips arrived alongside a whole suckling pig. The pig's skin was roasted to a deep gold, crackling when poked with chopsticks.

Last came mushrooms. Boiled with garlic, drizzled with butter, served in a small iron pot. They were tiny, one bite each, cooked soft. Biting down filled the mouth with garlic and the savory salt of butter.

Drogo pushed his chair back. His plate was piled with gnawed lamb bones, his soup bowl empty, half a slice of foie gras sitting untouched. He raised his wine cup and took a sip, watching the Crow's Eye across the table.

Euron was working through the mushrooms. Left hand, steady spoon. His blue lips glistened with butter. His cheeks moved as he chewed, pausing now and then to drag his tongue across the cracks in his lips.

"This," the Crow's Eye said, scooping up the last mushroom, "is very good." He put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then raised his head and looked at Drogo.

Joanna sat to his right. Her plate was stacked with two rows of lamb bones, gnawed clean. She ate faster than the Crow's Eye and without any preference, eating whatever happened to be closest.

Nimiz sat across from her. Half a bowl of soup. Two quail. His knife and fork were laid precisely parallel. His wine cup had barely moved.

Xue Ce Tamad stood nearby with a tin wine jug, a drop of red clinging to the spout. He filled Drogo's cup first, then went around to Joanna and filled hers. When he reached the Crow's Eye, he paused. Euron pushed his cup forward. Xue Ce poured, and the wine left a dark red film on the inside of the glass.

Three men stood outside the door. Strong Belwas's bald head caught the torchlight. Beast Batista's shoulders filled most of the doorframe. The Mountain Johnson stood at the back with both hands on his war hammer, the head resting on the ground. None of them spoke, but their shadows spilled through the gap and layered across the stone floor.

"Lord Euron," Drogo said. "How did you find the medicine I had prepared for your wounds?"

The Crow's Eye set his spoon down. He picked up his napkin with his left hand and wiped the corner of his mouth, unhurried.

"Your maester washed my entire arm with burning wine. Hurt so much I nearly bit my tongue off." He folded the napkin. "But he's decent. He cleaned the maggots out of my eye socket."

"And your feet."

The Crow's Eye looked down at his ankles resting on the footrest. "Tendons are severed. Can't be reattached."

He raised his head. "I will never stand again."

"Better than losing your life altogether." Nimiz's voice had an edge to it. "You sneaked onto Dragonstone and nearly got me killed along with you. The Khal was generous — I only took nine lashes. When you came to steal the dragon, you should have been clear about what failure would cost."

"Failure means being burned to ash by dragonfire and dropped into endless hell." The Crow's Eye speared a slice of foie gras with his fork, chewed twice. "I find I'm rather enjoying life in hell."

"How do you plan to use me? An ironborn who can't stand can't enter Valyria. Can't climb ruins."

"You can sit in a chair," Drogo said, "and tell me where your men should go. Your mind still works."

"My mind." The Crow's Eye considered that. "Yes. My mind still works."

Drogo lifted his wine cup.

"Tonight's dinner is to celebrate Lord Euron Greyjoy's appointment as Commander-in-Chief of the Treasure Hunters."

The Crow's Eye tilted his head slightly. "Treasure Hunters. You came up with that name yourself."

"You're the first to hold the title." Drogo leaned back in his chair. "When you put your hand on Drogon's snout, I was genuinely frightened. I thought you had done it."

"I nearly had."

"You wanted the Iron Throne," Drogo said.

The Crow's Eye raised his cup and admitted it without hesitation. "My thinking was to take your dragon first, then burn King's Landing."

He drank. "The Iron Throne is out of reach now. Commander-in-Chief of your Treasure Hunters isn't a bad alternative."

Drogo watched him. In that one blue eye there was no flattery, no resentment, no gratitude. Only a dry, patient calculation.

Drogo knew how this went. The Crow's Eye would find an opportunity for revenge eventually. Or he would try to ride Drogo's power toward his own ambitions. Or he would simply buy his freedom with good behavior and vanish the moment a door opened.

Killing him now would save a great deal of trouble.

But my dragons are still too small. Growing to Balerion's size could take decades. I don't have decades. The Night King is about to cross the Wall.

I need Valyrian steel. Enough of it. Fast.

"I'm glad you see it that way. Work for me and I'll treat you well. My wife just gave birth to a daughter. Her name is Joanna. Do well, and someday I'll let her marry your son."

The Crow's Eye glanced at the red priest beside him. "I hope she turns out prettier than that one."

Silence settled over the table for a long moment. The clink of wine cups rang clean in the quiet.

"Khal," Xue Ce said, breaking it, "the suckling pig has gone cold. Shall I have it reheated?" He gestured to the pig in the center of the table. The fat on its skin had congealed white, and chopsticks met no resistance when pressed against it.

"Heat it," Drogo said.

"These dishes," the Crow's Eye said. "Which one is Dothraki?"

"Not one of them." Drogo raised his cup. "Dothraki eat horse meat and drink mare's milk. My wife Daenerys couldn't stomach it, so I brought cooks from the Free Cities. Will that be a problem for you?"

"I eat anything." The Crow's Eye spooned up some cold soup. "On the Smoking Sea, I've eaten mushrooms growing out of the gaps between deck planks. I've eaten my own leather boots. I've eaten the liver of a sailor who died in the hold." He swallowed. "Your table is better than any of that."

Drogo said, "I hope we'll still have the chance to drink together like this."

The meaning underneath was plain enough. He hoped the Crow's Eye wouldn't make him regret it.

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