Chapter 255 - Volume III: The Burning Crusade
Three days later, King's Landing hosted a feast to crown Drogo as king.
The venue was the royal garden where Joffrey had wed Margaery Tyrell.
The very place where, at that wedding, Joffrey was supposed to have been poisoned.
The feast was loud and alive.
Silks draped the trellises. The long tables groaned with roast lamb, suckling pig, whole salted fish, honeyed fruit, and barrel after barrel of ale.
The Dothraki were already red-faced and roaring, feasting without restraint in the same garden where Joffrey had once taken his queen. It felt like the day of Drogo's own wedding all over again.
Over a thousand Dothraki warriors, in broad daylight, dragged captive women from King's Landing through the grounds. Most were the wives and daughters of Gold Cloaks and Lannister soldiers. They tore open their gowns and spread a naked feast across the lawns, beside the fountains, among the rose bushes.
The women's cries and screams tangled with Dothraki laughter and the blare of horns until everything blurred into one thick, indistinct roar.
Cersei Lannister was pulled by turns into the deep shade of the flower trellises, passed from man to man. She was the most sought-after. Every Dothraki who had dragged her along grinned and bragged to the next man, as if she were a trophy worth more than breaking down a city gate.
Drogo had only forbidden them to draw blood.
At a Dothraki wedding, a man could once pull his arakh at any moment and kill someone who displeased him. Blood on the grass was considered a blessing for the groom.
But these were Drogo's warriors. Precious ones.
Daenerys Targaryen stood at his side, a cup of untouched wine in her hand.
Her gaze moved over the bodies tangled across the lawn, then settled on Drogo.
"Even if you don't believe in the Seven, you shouldn't make enemies of them entirely. You told me yourself: water can carry a boat, but it can capsize one too."
"Those fanatics are poison water." Drogo bit into the sausage in his hand. Grease ran down between his fingers.
"They answer to the High Septon, not the king. Have you seen the way they kneel before the High Sparrow? More devout than they ever were before the Iron Throne. You can't tame people like that. Doesn't matter how much you feed them."
Melisandre turned her head from the table in front of him.
She was seated right beside the bloodriders, only a low table between her and Drogo. Her red robes caught the sunlight sharply. The gem at her throat looked like an open red eye.
She spoke at a measured, unhurried pace. "King Drogo was absolutely right to throw the High Sparrow into the dungeons."
"I have only one request: burn him soon."
"What's the rush." Drogo stuffed the rest of the sausage into his mouth, chewed twice, swallowed, and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Burning one Reek was enough to make the Lord of Light show himself. So burning the earthly mouthpiece of a rival god?" He paused. "That's something else entirely."
"I'm keeping him. Save him for when we actually need something from the Lord of Light."
A faint curve touched the corner of Melisandre's lips. She pressed them to the rim of her cup, then set the wine down and dipped her head toward him.
"My wise king. You understand how to use the Lord of Light's gifts far better than Stannis ever did."
Daenerys Targaryen glanced at her.
"Gods are nothing more than something for people to lean on. These so-called manifestations are just clouds passing in front of the moon at the right moment. You decide it's a miracle."
Drogo leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg.
"The Seven, yes. But the Lord of Light has actually delivered."
Daenerys Targaryen didn't argue. She lowered her eyes, raised her cup, and took a slow sip. She watched the crowds reveling in the garden. Watched the women of King's Landing being hauled from one place to the next. Watched Cersei Lannister passed from one rider's hands to another.
A figure approached through the crowd.
Varys wore a grey silk robe, its hem dragging across the grass, picking up a few torn blades along the way.
He crossed to the stone dais where Drogo sat, stopped at the base of the steps, and bent slightly at the waist. He held a leather-bound book in both hands and raised it to the level of his brow.
"My king. This is my gift to you. A book on how to rule a kingdom. It records the right decisions and the wrong ones made by every ruler from Aegon's Conquest to Robert Baratheon's coronation."
Drogo took it and flipped through a couple of pages.
Dense, small script covered every sheet. Rough maps sketched in some margins. Red ink marks scattered throughout.
He closed the book and set it beside his knee.
"Thoughtful of you."
Varys didn't step back.
"Then I will be bold, my king. The common people of King's Landing are still going hungry."
"The Queen made promises to repair homes destroyed by the wildfire. None of it has been carried out."
"I hope you will see to these matters soon."
Drogo studied him. This eunuch had spent most of his life inside the machinery of Westerosi power. He was one of the very few who had genuinely kept the lives of ordinary people in his heart.
When he had learned of Cersei Lannister's wildfire scheme, he hadn't lost his mind alongside the Lannisters. Instead he had reached out to the mole he'd planted in Drogo's own circle, a man named Woodfall.
Only to find that Woodfall had already been turned.
But it was precisely because Varys had switched sides that he had gone to Tywin and persuaded that old commander to pull two-thirds of the wall garrison away from the battlements.
Drogo knew this eunuch had tripped him up more than once. He also knew the man was genuinely trying to look out for the ordinary people of Westeros.
Drogo wanted to do something good for this land too. That was why Varys was still breathing.
"My fleet is already hauling supplies up from Slaver's Bay. The stockpiled grain from Dragonstone has started offloading at King's Landing harbor."
"The quantities are too small," Varys said. "The crossing from Dragonstone to King's Landing is short, but the pace of delivery is far too slow."
"Sea transport. Storms happen. That's just how it goes." Drogo looked at him. "And I haven't even started on you. Before we'd even taken King's Landing, you had me queue the cargo ships up behind the warships. We lost several. That falls on you."
Varys dipped his head. No defense in his voice. Only a quiet, settled regret. "I only wanted to save a few more starving people."
Scarlett, seated to Drogo's left, turned her head. She had Drogo's daughter Jonina Drogo cradled in her arms. Her voice was unhurried, pitched right in the middle.
"You should have said something sooner. Have Drogo use the dragons. Air transport gets there immediately. Ships take four or five days."
A thin layer of helplessness crossed Varys's face. He gave a small bow toward Drogo and retreated into the crowd without expression.
Brass bells chimed beneath the trellises. The next gift-bearer had already stepped forward.
After that, the afternoon moved like water.
Gift-bearers came forward one after another. Gold and silver vessels, bolts of silk, exotic spices, rare curiosities that Drogo couldn't have named if he tried. He nodded mechanically. Opened a box or two, glanced inside, set them aside. His interest didn't deepen.
His bloodriders collected the gifts beside him. The brass bells kept ringing. Wine and roasted meat hung heavy in the air. The warmth and the noise made a man want to sleep.
After a while, his gaze drifted across the crowd and snagged on one spot.
Sansa sat two seats from Margaery Tyrell, looking down at her own hands.
She wore a dark grey gown. Her waist was much wider than before, the curve of her belly clearly visible under the fabric. The cup of wine in front of her had barely been touched. She'd eaten a few bites of bread from her plate, nothing more.
"Sansa," Drogo said. "What's wrong? You're not happy?"
Sansa raised her head.
"The feast was arranged too quickly. We should have used this opportunity to invite the Freys and the Boltons here. Brought them all together, and finished them in one stroke."
Barristan Selmy, standing guard behind her, frowned. "Lady Sansa. That would be a violation of guest right."
"Why should guest right apply to them?" Sansa said.
Drogo was about to answer when another gift-bearer stepped into his line of sight.
A middle-aged man in a dark grey robe. Lean build. A thin leather belt at his waist. A flat wooden box held in both hands.
No pattern on the lid. No markings. Lacquered a plain, unremarkable brown.
He bowed and offered the casket, his voice deferential and a little eager. "Please open it, my honored king. I believe it will satisfy you."
Drogo took the casket and rested his fingers on the brass clasp.
The noise of the feast continued all around him. Dothraki laughter. Women sobbing. The bright clink of cups. Someone in the distance singing a Dothraki song.
The Perception Bond brought every sound close, as if it were happening right beside his ear.
He heard a murmur.
"I am sorry."
➤ Next: The Purple Dragon Egg