GOT: The Great — Chapter 234 - The Value of Waste

Wodevar Tamad walked into the command tent to find Drogo mapping out the next assault, intent on grinding the King's Landing garrison into dust.

"Khal," Wodevar said. "Two pieces of news. Neither is good."

Drogo looked up.

"Petyr Baelish has been sent to Braavos. Cersei dispatched him to lobby the Sealord."

Wodevar wiped the frostbite marks on his nose with the back of his hand. "He stood before us and swore his loyalty, then turned around and took Cersei's assignment. The Iron Bank of Braavos has always backed the Lannisters. If he actually brings the Sealord over to their side, Braavosi warships could punch a hole straight through our naval blockade."

Drogo wasn't surprised. Littlefinger, the man who had sworn before him that he would open the Old Gate on the eve of the assault, was already on a ship bound for Braavos.

Petyr Baelish belonged to no one. He helped whoever was winning. The problem was that his "help" always hedged both sides, and no matter which side fell, he'd still be standing.

"There's one more." Wodevar's voice dropped. "Our little birds in the city. All of them, gone. We bribed women with food to spread word that Cersei had wildfire planted beneath the city. The first two days the rumors moved smoothly. But Varys's little birds in King's Landing found our people and reported them to the Gold Cloaks. The Gold Cloaks traced the rumors back to their source and swept up every last one of ours in a single net. The hidden money and grain were seized along with them."

Drogo stood, walked to the tent entrance, and lifted the flap a crack. Snow was still falling outside.

Wodevar waited for the scolding.

"Your ability truly is lacking," Drogo said.

Wodevar lowered his head. He didn't defend himself.

"But the problem isn't only you." Drogo turned around. "Varys has been working King's Landing for over a decade. His little birds are a spider's web. Yours were just a handful of chicks that hadn't grown their feathers yet."

Drogo went back to the table and picked up a sheet of paper. He smoothed it flat, took up a quill, and wrote several lines in a loose, flowing hand.

"Read it." He pushed the parchment across to Wodevar.

Wodevar looked down. "Cersei Lannister has filled the ground beneath King's Landing with wildfire. She means to blow you all up. Open the gates, and Queen Daenerys will spare your lives."

"Copy it ten thousand times," Drogo said. "Tonight."

"Khal, we don't have enough hands."

"How many scribes are in the camp?"

Wodevar thought for a moment. "A dozen or so."

"Bring them all. It doesn't need to be pretty. Just legible."

Wodevar rolled up the paper and tucked it into his sleeve. "I'll see to it now."

Nimiz's fishing boats went into the water after nightfall. 26 single-masted vessels, shallow draft, fast through the current. On the deck of each stood five straw men.

A lantern was tied to each stern. Their light dragged the straw men's shadows across the Blackwater Rush in long, wavering lines.

From the walls of King's Landing, it looked very much like a vanguard force crossing the river.

The stretch of river was Joffrey's to defend. Tywin had handed the Blackwater Rush line to the king, letting him feel like a true commander.

Joffrey stood atop the walls at the King's Gate, watching the 26 boats draw slowly closer across the dark water. He was thrilled.

He gave the order to pour the wildfire.

Green liquid poured from bronze nozzles along the wall and streamed into the Blackwater Rush.

Wildfire was lighter than water. It floated on the surface and kept flowing toward the boats. When it reached them, the defenders on the walls loosed flaming arrows, and the entire river became a writhing emerald serpent of fire.

All 26 fishing boats were swallowed whole.

Joffrey meant to recreate Tyrion's Battle of the Blackwater. He clapped on the wall, his laughter shrill and sharp.

If someone told him now that all 26 boats were empty, that burning those straw men had consumed 1,000 jars of wildfire, would Joffrey still be laughing?

King's Landing was under siege. No new wildfire ingredients were getting in. Every barrel used was a barrel gone for good.

Drogo watched it all from dragonback. The black dragon kept its wings folded and glided through the dark, black scales dissolving into the night sky around them.

Drogo had it circle low over King's Landing.

He pulled a stack of leaflets from the leather bag on the dragon's back, held them up into the airstream at the edge of the wing, and let go.

The pages caught the current and scattered like a flock of white birds, drifting across the night sky and settling down onto the streets, the rooftops, the courtyards of King's Landing.

A few were lifted by thermal currents and carried toward the Red Keep.

He pictured the scene tomorrow morning: the people of King's Landing pushing open their doors to find the ground blanketed in paper, and on every sheet, the news that Cersei planned to blow them all up.

The dragon circled twice more, then banked and flew toward Dragonstone.

He landed in the clearing before the Stone Drum Tower.

Melisandre was already waiting at the entrance.

"The attack didn't go well?"

"It was only a probe — looking for gaps." Drogo dropped down from the dragon. "First scare Cersei out of her wits, then stir the city's people into chaos. The real attack hasn't started yet."

He walked toward the Stone Drum Tower. Melisandre fell in behind him. They passed through the stone corridor and entered the Chamber of the Painted Table. The brazier was burning hot, its light falling across the mountains and rivers of the Seven Kingdoms in shifting patterns of bright and dark.

"King's Landing has too many scorpions. I can't just charge in." Drogo sat down. "At Rosby, the battle went cleanly. A violent storm rolled in after dark, black as the bottom of a kettle. I burned every scorpion on their walls with dragonflame, the Free Army threw up pontoon bridges and crossed the moat, and Rosby was ours before dawn."

"A violent storm?"

"Yes. But that kind of storm doesn't come in winter."

Melisandre's eyes caught the firelight for a moment. She walked to the brazier and held her hand above the flames, fingers spreading slightly in the heat.

"Raging wind and driving rain. Night black as ink. At the most critical moment — the defenders blind." She murmured it to herself, then drew her hand back. "I can use the power of the Lord of Light. Sacrifice someone with royal blood, and I can summon that storm."

"Good." Drogo didn't doubt the Lord of Light's power for a second. And Melisandre, standing here with him, felt a trust Stannis had never thought to give her. "The Prince of Winterfell will be escorted here in a few days. Use him."

"The Prince of Winterfell?"

"Theon Greyjoy. After he took Winterfell, he crowned himself its prince."

Melisandre shook her head. "No."

"Why?"

"I'm not speaking of Theon Greyjoy. He is a pirate's descendant — he carries no king's blood in him. I am speaking of Viserys."

Viserys. The silver-haired man rotting in his dungeon. "No," Drogo said. "I still have use for Viserys."

"You broke his hands and feet. You had him gelded. He is already a cripple with nothing left to offer."

"Then we find a use for the waste." Drogo said. "If I can get my hands on another dragon egg, I want Viserys to hatch it. Whether he succeeds or fails, he will have proved his worth."

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