GOT: The Great — Chapter 228 - Are You All So Eager to Deliver a Dragon to the Night King?

Drogo strode through the black stone corridors of Dragonstone. The doors of the Stone Drum Tower boomed shut behind him. The torches on the walls guttered in the rush of air, then straightened and burned steady.

Only Melisandre stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

She stood before the brazier, head bowed over the embers. The red glow painted her face, turning her pupils the color of copper. She heard the footsteps and raised her head.

"What is it?"

Drogo circled the painted table and dropped into a stone chair.

The anger was still simmering: That damned little imp actually wants me to ride a dragon to the Wall and capture an Other.

He should have thrown that dwarf off the cliff. Or at the very least ripped out his tongue. In the show, they'd captured a wight to show Cersei. In this life it was Joffrey and Tywin, same tune, different players.

What came out of his mouth was, "Tyrion wants me to ride a dragon beyond the Wall to deal with the Others."

Melisandre's eyes lit up.

"This is sound counsel. Set aside the Iron Throne for now. The true enemy is the darkness. The Others. You chose the Lord of Light, you must renounce worldly power and fight for him."

Drogo nearly laughed.

That was exactly how she had walked Stannis Baratheon into the North. Burning one person after another, spending one life after another, until he was broken and dead in the snow.

But he didn't laugh, because he did need the Lord of Light.

In this world of ice and fire, anyone could die at any moment, with no reason and no warning. Choosing the Lord of Light was the same as buying insurance back in his old world. If something happened, at least there was a chance at resurrection.

"The Others cannot cross the Wall. Not now, anyway."

"But—"

"Silence."

Melisandre opened her mouth. Then she closed it. She retreated to the side of the brazier, her red robe dragging across the stone floor with a soft rasp.

Drogo turned his gaze back to the painted table.

The mountains and rivers of Westeros had been carved into its surface. Waves sculpted along the edges, cities carved inland. He traced a finger along the Roseroad, running from King's Landing all the way to Highgarden.

He stayed like that, losing track of time.

He thought of the harbor at Tyrosh. The Mother of Mountains rising from the Dothraki Sea. All the riders who had followed him across the Narrow Sea.

The door opened.

Iron boots on stone, then a group of footsteps.

Drogo lifted his head.

Daenerys Targaryen walked in first. Barristan Selmy followed at her left rear, right hand resting on his sword pommel. Six household guards filed into the Chamber of the Painted Table and fanned out.

Then Sansa Stark. She had grown considerably since Drogo married her. Her red hair fell loose over her shoulders, and she wore a heavy black cloak.

Brienne came in behind her, the Sworn Sword never more than a step away.

Last through the door was Tyrion Lannister.

The wound from their clash still marked the corner of his mouth. The torn hole in his breeches hadn't been mended. But he walked like a man who had just strolled out of the great hall at Casterly Rock.

He gave Drogo a brief nod and took his place beside Sansa Stark.

The chamber was suddenly full.

Household guards lined the door and the walls. Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark stood on opposite sides of the painted table. Melisandre hadn't moved from the brazier.

Tyrion Lannister had chosen his position carefully. He stood between Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark, favoring neither side, with both women as a wall at his back.

Drogo looked at the arrangement and understood at once.

While he'd been fighting in the Stepstones, the dwarf had already brought both of them around.

"If you've come to make me go capture an Other," Drogo said, speaking first, "then there's nothing to discuss."

"My sun and stars." Daenerys Targaryen's voice was quiet. "I am tired of death."

"In Slaver's Bay, in the Stormlands, I have seen more corpses than living people. If there is a better way to reclaim the Iron Throne, I have to try."

She placed one hand on the edge of the painted table. The stone was cold, every inch of the Seven Kingdoms carved beneath her palm.

"My sun and stars, if you storm King's Landing, Cersei Lannister will blow the city apart. Our soldiers burn in the wildfire. The people of King's Landing burn with them. Tyrion Lannister is right. I did not come here to be the Queen of Ashes."

Sansa Stark spoke softly in agreement. Her voice was quieter than Daenerys Targaryen's, but no less certain.

"I was close to the Queen Mother for two years."

Everyone looked at her.

"I watched how she treated her enemies. How she treated anyone she didn't care about. King's Landing is not a home to her. It is a bargaining chip. If she cannot hold it, she would rather burn it down."

Melisandre turned from the brazier.

"Heed them. The true enemy is in the North."

Drogo didn't answer.

He leaned back in the stone chair and looked around the room.

Daenerys Targaryen stood across from him, lips pressed tight, eyes steady on his.

He was still seething.

He was starting to regret sending Jonina Bieyang away. If she were here, she would never talk this kind of nonsense.

Bieyang could read my thoughts from across a room. Melisandre still has to lay a hand on my chest. Bieyang had it right, this woman's gifts are ordinary at best.

"There is magic beneath the Wall," he said slowly. "The Others cannot cross it. Are all of you so eager to hand the Night King a dragon?"

No one understood what he meant.

Daenerys Targaryen's brow creased.

Sansa Stark glanced at Brienne. Brienne's grip on her sword hilt tightened.

Tyrion Lannister tilted his head, eyes working, like a man trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces gone. The household guards traded looks.

Only Melisandre's eyes went wide.

"Moon of my life." Drogo looked at Daenerys Targaryen, his voice dropping a fraction. "When we walked out of the pyre, you told me we must never go beyond the Wall. You've forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten," she said. "But it was only a dream."

"What dream?" Melisandre turned sharply. "What did you see?"

Drogo answered for her.

"Viserion killed by the Night King. Turned into an ice dragon. And then that dragon, breathing blue fire — blue dragonfire — bringing the Wall down."

He said it plainly. But everyone in the room went still.

The color left Daenerys Targaryen's face.

Melisandre turned back to the brazier and stared into the flames.

She stared for a long time.

The fire licked along the edges of the charcoal, throwing her shadow up the stone wall behind her, stretching it long and thin. Her lips moved, soundless, chanting or praying, impossible to tell. The flames crackled, and for just a moment the light flashed white.

Then her face went dark.

"I cannot see it." Confusion ran through her voice. "There is nothing in the flames. Nothing about an ice dragon."

"If I showed you with dragonfire," Drogo said, "would you see it more clearly?"

Melisandre was about to answer.

Barristan Selmy stepped forward first.

"We have all seen the wight Ygritte. She had no power to kill a dragon."

Drogo looked at him.

"You spoke out of turn, Captain."

Barristan Selmy closed his mouth and stepped back.

Sansa Stark spoke up quietly.

"Above the wights are the Others. And the Others were made by the Night King. Ygritte was only the lowest kind of wight, far below an Other. If the Night King were given a weapon powerful enough..."

She let it hang there, unfinished.

She didn't need to finish. Everyone in the room understood.

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