GOT: The Great — Chapter 274 - Reroute
Drogo stood in the Throne Room.
He was standing on the map of all Westeros that covered the hall floor, his boots planted over King's Landing. Then he stepped off and walked west.
He followed the border of the Reach, skirted the marker for the Golden Tooth, moved through the rolling hills, and stopped at Casterly Rock.
"Tommen Baratheon was sent away before King's Landing fell. The Westerlands holds him and Casterly Rock now. As long as Tommen is alive, the Westerlands won't surrender."
Margaery's gaze settled on Sunspear at the southern end of the map. The heart of Dorne.
"Dorne has already put out the word — they mean to crown Myrcella Baratheon as queen and swear to fight to the last."
"And the Vale," Daenerys said. "Their position is still unclear."
Sansa pushed back. "The Vale is Aunt Lysa. She won't move against House Stark. The Vale and the North have always been close."
"But the Vale doesn't know you married King Drogo," Margaery said.
Drogo had crossed paths with Littlefinger back in Rosby.
He'd kept Baelish steady that time, and the man had promised to stir up chaos in King's Landing. He just hadn't gotten the chance to act before Tywin issued an order and shipped him off to Braavos to seek assistance.
Littlefinger played both sides. Drogo knew better than to fully trust him.
But Tywin was dead. Joffrey was dead. Littlefinger was good at sitting on fences, but when the fence collapsed, he still had to pick a side.
What did he have to use against Drogo?
As for Lysa Tully, that woman had eyes only for Baelish. If Baelish didn't raise a rebellion, she wouldn't jump out on her own.
The one thing Drogo still couldn't pin down was who had sent that Sorrowful Man to the banquet.
Baelish was possible. But not certain.
"The Vale isn't a threat for now. I'll take the Westerlands and Dorne first. The Vale can wait."
Sansa added, "There's also House Frey at the Twins and House Bolton in the North."
Drogo's gaze swept across the map. King's Landing to the Westerlands. The Westerlands to Dorne. Dorne to the Vale. The Vale to the North.
He was already King of Westeros. Five of the seven kingdoms still needed to be taken one by one.
He pulled his eyes off the map.
"It's been nearly half a month since we took King's Landing. The men have rested enough. They've had their fill of pleasure."
"We march. Westerlands first."
His Bloodriders stood behind him.
Cohollo crossed his arms over his chest and spoke in the Common Tongue, his Dothraki accent thick: "Khal, our warriors are ready. We can leave whenever you give the word."
Drogo nodded and was about to speak when Jonina Beeyon walked into the Throne Room. "Khal — the Valyrian steel armor for all 3 dragons is finished."
"Good. Let's see it." The group passed through the courtyard and came out to the open ground beyond the main keep.
3 new sets of armor were laid out. The Valyrian steel had been hammered into thin plates, riveted together piece by piece, shaped to follow the curve of each dragon's neck and rib cage.
Drogon was armored first.
He lowered his head and held still while Drogo fastened the neck plates, then shook his wings. The steel pieces tightened in sequence as the muscles shifted beneath them, sending up a low, grinding rasp of metal on metal.
Rhaegal and Viserion were fitted one after the other. Once the shoulder plates were settled and the buckles at the wing roots adjusted, the 3 sets of armor lay against their bodies like a second layer of scales.
Daenerys stood on the steps at the entrance to the main keep. "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow at first light."
"I'm coming with you."
Drogo turned and looked at her.
"You stay in King's Landing. Ao Bing is still too small — the Purple Dragon can't be without you. It knocked over the goat's milk Irri brought it 3 times this morning. It won't settle without you here."
The corner of Daenerys's mouth moved slightly. She was quiet for a moment. "I understand."
The next morning, a line of people stood on the walls above King's Landing's Dragon Gate.
Daenerys wore a deep red robe, a white lion pelt draped over her shoulders, the hood's edge framing the short silver hair that had just grown back in.
She held Ao Bing against her chest. The small purple dragon lay curled in the crook of her arm, eyes half-open, tail hanging loose, curling faintly in the cold air.
Missandei, Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah stood behind her, carrying food baskets and hand warmers.
Scarlett had come too, holding her child, her golden hair bright in the early light.
Sansa stood at the front, one hand resting on her visibly rounded belly, her face pale from the wind.
Margaery had come to see them off as well. Thick dark green cloak, standing beside Scarlett. She said nothing. She only watched Drogo.
When Drogon dropped from the sky, the ground shuddered, and the Valyrian steel armor caught a dark gleam in the morning light.
Drogo swung up onto the dragon's back and was about to pull the reins taut when Wodevar Tamad came striding quickly out of the gatehouse passage, letter in hand, moving faster than usual.
"Khal. This came from the Night's Watch."
Drogo climbed back down, took the letter, broke the seal. When the page unfolded, the wind rushed in and nearly curled the parchment back on itself.
He pressed it flat and scanned it. His gaze stopped somewhere in the middle. He looked up, found Sansa, walked to where she stood on the wall, and held the letter out.
"Ramsay Bolton has attacked the Wall. The letter was written 3 days ago. I don't know whether they've held, or whether they're still alive."
Sansa took it.
As she bent her head to read, her shoulders began to slowly draw in. Somewhere in the middle of the page her breath caught for half a beat, then came back.
When she raised her head, there was a thin shine of moisture in her eyes. "Bolton will kill my mother."
A pause. "He'll kill Rickon and Jon too."
"This is because you couldn't keep a secret," Drogo said. "You let slip that Rickon was still alive."
The fingers gripping the letter trembled slightly. She didn't argue. She stood there, head down, looking at the tips of her own feet.
Then she looked up at him, her voice quieter than before. "I'm asking you, please go to the North first. Save them."
"My army can't march straight through the North while Bolton controls it," Drogo said. "You know how many battles a direct advance would cost."
"The dragons can." Her eyes dropped to the 3 below the walls, already clad in their Valyrian steel armor. "Fly them there. No fighting needed. You could break him from the air alone."
Drogo looked at her. The fear and the pleading in those eyes, rising to the surface.
He took 2 steps forward and raised his hand to her face.
He held her gaze for a few breaths. Then he turned and called out to Qyburn, who was waiting to one side:
"Pack the wildfire in jars. Each jar the size of a cup. 200 jars. Strap them into the net bags behind the dragon saddle."
Half a shichen later, the pyromancers loaded the small jars one by one into the leather pouches behind Drogon's saddle.
The wildfire shifted faintly inside the jars, putting off a dim green glow. Each jar was wax-sealed, wrapped in several layers of thick cloth, padded away from its neighbors, packed in tight.
Drogo settled into the saddle to test it, adjusted his position, and confirmed the jars wouldn't knock against each other in the air.
Then he pulled the reins. Drogon's wings spread wide in the morning light. The Valyrian steel armor flexed at the joint where the wings met the body, releasing a short, sharp metallic scrape, and then he lunged forward and lifted off.
The air currents rolled up from the ground, swirling the loose snow on the surface into a spinning haze.
Rhaegal and Viserion followed. The 3 dragons formed a wedge and flew north.
When the wind poured down into Drogo's collar, he pulled his neck in slightly.
King's Landing shrank away behind him. The Blackwater Rush became a curved grey line. The fields of the Riverlands spread out beneath his feet, broken into small patches of ridged earth and bare winter trees.
➤ Next: The Battle of the Bastards