GOT: The Great — Chapter 233 - Lightbringer — Face to Face

Drogo's dragons appeared over King's Landing at noon, the midday sun balanced on the tip of the Red Keep's tallest spire.

Three pairs of wings spread wide enough to swallow a swath of sky. The shadows stretched from Flea Bottom all the way to the walls of the Lion Gate.

Inside the city, people started screaming.

The warning bell tolled 5 times. Then silence.

Drogo let the dragons circle. One pass, two, three. He kept the altitude low enough that the men on the walls could make out every ridge and scale.

Scorpion bolts began climbing toward him.

A few at first, then more, then dense enough to darken the air beneath the dragons' bellies. They came with that sharp, tearing shriek of bolts pushed past their range. Too far up, the energy bled out long before they arrived. Even the ones that connected would only bite plate armor and bounce.

Still, the Black Dragon had had enough. It lashed its tail and climbed toward the clouds.

Drogo looked down.

People were running through the streets. Others were throwing themselves into doorways and ducking under eaves. In the Red Keep's courtyard, half a dozen figures in gold armor sprinted back and forth like they had no idea which way to run.

Good.

This was exactly the effect he wanted. Let Cersei Lannister see the dragons. Let her understand that if he chose to, the Red Keep could look like Harrenhal by tomorrow morning. What she didn't know, and didn't need to know, was that his three young dragons couldn't burn through stone. Not yet.

Her reason would crack a little further. And cracked people made mistakes.

He circled two more times, then turned the dragon's head north and flew.

He landed at the camp along the northern stretch of the Kingsroad. Winter had arrived. A thin skin of snow lay over the wheat fields, and the wingbeats sent it spiraling up in white clouds around him.

Jorah Mormont was already waiting, helmet tucked under his arm. There was a graze above his brow that hadn't stopped bleeding.

"The defenders hit back hard, Khal. The scorpions covered half our battle line. The infantry pushed forward twice. Both times they got driven back."

Jorah dragged his thumb across the wound, looked at the blood on his finger, wiped it on his trousers. "Jako pulled back on the western side as well. King's Landing's defenses are tougher than we estimated."

Drogo nodded. He told Jorah to hold the siege, to push the camp's defensive line back a full bowshot beyond scorpion range, and to hold the next assault until nightfall. Darkness would let the rumors inside the walls fester. And if Barristan Selmy's wildfire map came through, the next attack would be a different conversation entirely.

He was still short of the command tent when a stir rose from the camp's outer edge.

A Dothraki scout rode in and reported: a column from the north, roughly 200 riders, flying dragon banners and the flayed-man banner.

Jorah's brow pulled tight. The flayed-man banner. House Bolton.

"Bring their leader to me," Drogo said.

Ramsay Bolton dismounted cleanly.

He handed his sword to an attendant and spread both hands open in front of the camp guards, demonstrating he was unarmed.

He wore a deep blue woolen robe, a flayed-man brooch pinned at the collar, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. When he bowed to Drogo, he bent deep at the waist. His voice was soft and unhurried.

"Lord Khal," he said. "I've brought you a gift."

He gestured, and an attendant set a long wrapped bundle on the ground. The wrapping was deep crimson velvet, stitched in gold thread with a flaming heart, the sacred sigil of the Lord of Light.

Ramsay peeled back the cloth himself and took a step back.

The longsword blazed. Red and gold and orange, vivid as a sun hammered out of steel.

Drogo lifted it. Everyone present had to look away or shield their eyes. Horses shied and skittered backward. One threw its rider entirely.

"Lightbringer," Ramsay said. "The legendary sword of Azor Ahai. Stannis Baratheon was defeated and killed in the North, and the sword came to me afterward."

"Look at that glow — just like it came straight out of the forge. Beautiful, isn't it?" He smiled. "It's a fake."

"In actual use, it performs no better than a common iron sword. I once had a man try to split a frozen cut of meat with it. It couldn't get through the bone. Inferior to Valyrian steel — my kitchen cleaver probably serves better."

"Stannis carried it all the way to the North. He was likely deceived as well."

Drogo turned the sword in his hand. Of course it was a fake. Melisandre had wrapped an ordinary blade in a spell, given it the look of the hero's sword from the old stories, the one that was supposed to drive back the darkness. He already knew that.

But Ramsay hadn't ridden here just to deliver a counterfeit sword. He had something else on his mind.

Sure enough, Ramsay turned to Jorah Mormont.

"Ser Mormont." His tone hadn't changed, perfectly courteous. "Bear Island refuses to swear allegiance to the new Warden of the North. You were once its lord. Your name still carries weight there. If you were willing to bring Bear Island into line, I might be able to pardon your exile."

He spread his hands. "After all, the Khal permits the slave trade. Slave trade means commerce. Commerce means prosperity. The North doesn't need rigid honor — it needs prosperity. Wouldn't you agree?"

Jorah Mormont looked at him the way you look at something unpleasant on the bottom of your boot.

"Bear Island is nothing to do with me."

Ramsay's smile didn't move.

Drogo looked at him. Beneath the pleasant manners and the soft voice, Ramsay Bolton was a beast wearing a man's face. Drogo knew that better than anyone standing in this camp.

"Snow," Drogo said.

Something shifted in Ramsay's expression. Then the smile came back.

"Whom are you calling, Khal? I changed my name back to Bolton long ago."

"Reek," Drogo said, not bothering with the man's surname. "Bring him here."

Ramsay went still. That look, a hunter realizing his quarry had already been marked by someone else. "I'm not sure I follow. Reek is just a servant of mine. Why would you want, "

"Euron Greyjoy is in my hands."

Ramsay closed his mouth.

"I captured Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Gave him a way to live, appointed him Commander of Salvage, to scour the ruins of Valyria for Valyrian steel on my behalf. His condition was the return of his nephew. Theon Greyjoy."

Drogo held his gaze.

"Which means, Reek. Your Reek. Bring him here."

Ramsay was quiet for a moment. His hands hung at his sides. His fingers worked at a loose thread on his cuff.

If Euron was truly in Drogo's hands, and Euron had truly named a condition, then Theon's life was worth something after all. But handing over Reek meant losing a toy.

"Of course, Khal. I'll send him to you when I return. Theon Greyjoy is your Commander's nephew. He should be with his own family."

He bowed, turned, and walked away.

Drogo wrapped Lightbringer back in the velvet.

He watched Ramsay Bolton's figure shrink across the snow at the camp's edge and disappear.

He wasn't actually helping Euron ransom anyone. Euron Greyjoy had never mentioned his nephew. Not once.

But Ramsay didn't need to know that.

He wanted Theon Greyjoy for a simpler reason, because snatching toys from other men was its own pleasure. He was already looking forward to putting his two Reeks on the same stage: Theon and Viserys, side by side.

And he was curious, too. To see what was left of Theon after everything Ramsay had done to him.

➤ Next: The Value of Waste