GOT: The Great — Chapter 279 - Knocking Out Jon Snow's Front Tooth

Bronze Yohn's command shout yanked Drogo out of sleep.

He opened his eyes. Day had already broken, pale grey light leaked through the gaps in the window shutters and fell across the stone floor.

He sat up, threw on his coat, and walked out. The Vale knights were assembled in the castle courtyard, ready to ride. Some were settling saddles onto their horses' backs. Others were checking the buckles on their tack.

Drogo walked over and stopped in the middle of the courtyard. "How many Vale knights can still ride against House Bolton?"

His gaze swept the men packing their gear, then moved to Jon. "What about the Night's Watch — how many can you spare? And how many wildlings are still fit to fight?"

Yohn cinched the last buckle on the saddle in his hands.

He looked at Drogo. "You may have been crowned, but the lords of the Vale have not bent the knee to you. You are not my king. You have no authority to command us."

"Kings come and go, one after another, always showing up to demand gold and soldiers. If we said yes every time, what would we have left?"

"We came to aid Lady Stark. That purpose has been fulfilled."

Drogo stood among the horses and knights still readying themselves around him. "The Vale has stayed out of Westeros's chaos all this time — I thought you at least had the sense to read the room. Turns out you're genuinely blind. I have three dragons. Is there anyone in all of Westeros more worthy of your loyalty than me?"

Yohn's tone did not soften. "That's something you'll need to take up with the Defender of the Vale, Robin Arryn. We answer to him. We're leaving now."

"Go, then. Go on. With any luck, House Bolton's forces will ambush you somewhere in the North."

Yohn said nothing.

He swung up into the saddle, settled his helm, pulled the reins, and rode toward the gate.

The Vale knights followed. Hooves made soft, crunching sounds in the snow. Iron buckles on the saddle fittings jingled. Sky-blue banners rolled and snapped in the wind. One by one they passed through Castle Black's iron gate and disappeared into the pale grey snowfields beyond.

Drogo's gaze settled on Jon.

Jon held a cup of steaming wine. "The Wall is too long. If the Others truly come, we won't have enough men."

"We can barely station 1 man every 2 leagues. And that's with everyone on the Wall — craftsmen, cooks, anyone who can stand upright. Most of them have no business being in a fight."

"All right. I understand you're short on men."

"There is one more thing," Jon said. "The Night's Watch is impartial. We don't interfere in the internal affairs of the Seven Kingdoms."

That hit Drogo like a spark on dry tinder. "When you wrote begging for help, why didn't you mention your impartiality then? What were your exact words? 'House Bolton is attacking the Wall.' You wrote that. Now that the threat's been driven off, you want to lecture me about rules?"

He gave Jon no time to answer. "Maybe I should have let Ramsay Bolton flay you alive! Let him nail your skin to the Wall for display, so everyone could see exactly how the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch begs for rescue and then lectures his rescuer about proper conduct!"

Jon stood there holding his cup, frozen.

"The Night's Watch defends the Seven Kingdoms against the Others. You coming to help, that was simply what you were supposed to do. You sit on the Iron Throne now. The Others will eventually threaten your rule too."

"The Others will threaten the North first," Drogo said. "Go tell that to Ramsay. See what answer you get."

Jon didn't argue. He didn't say anything more. He just drained the cup in one go.

Drogo drew a slow breath and pushed the rising anger back down.

He'd realized it by now. No matter how long he kept at this, he wasn't getting any soldiers. The Night's Watch didn't have the men. Pressing further would change nothing.

Lady Stoneheart had watched it all, the argument with Bronze Yohn, the argument with Jon.

Her voice leaked out from between cracked lips, each word dragged up from somewhere deep in her throat with visible effort, slow and labored in the way that was entirely her own:

"Be patient... I am calling the Northern bannermen in Rickon Stark's name. The Northern houses... are very loyal... they will send men."

Drogo shook his head. "I'd be better off flying back to King's Landing right now and having the navy ship troops up to the North."

"That's far faster than waiting for those loyal bannermen to write back one letter at a time."

The Night's Watch had nothing to give him. The Vale men were already gone. The Northern bannermen, who knew how long that would take.

"What about Tormund?" he asked.

Jon: "Food ran out. He took his people hunting at first light."

Drogo didn't answer. He turned and walked toward Castle Black's gate.

His boots pressed deep, steady prints into the snow, each step planted firmly before the next. The iron gate swung slowly open ahead of him, its hinges grinding out a low, heavy sound, and the cold wind hit him full in the face.

Jon's voice came from behind him. "I hope you'll leave one dragon behind to help defend the Wall."

Drogo stopped. He stood in the gateway for a moment.

Wind poured in from ahead, lifting the hem of his cloak.

Then he turned. He walked back to Jon, reached out, and grabbed him by the front of his collar. He pulled him one step forward.

Jon's feet scraped along the ground. He lost his footing.

Drogo's right fist connected before Jon could steady himself, square in the mouth.

Jon staggered back 2 steps and his back hit the wall with a dull THUD.

Blood ran from his lower lip, dripping off his chin onto his collar.

He raised his hand and wiped it with the back of his hand. He looked at the blood.

Then he looked up at Drogo. When he opened his mouth, a front tooth dropped out.

The Night's Watch brothers nearby went rigid.

Dolorous Edd stood a few steps away. His hand had already found the hilt of his sword.

His knuckles rested there for 2 breaths. Then they released, slowly, with unmistakable hesitation.

Their Lord Commander had just been hit. Every instinct said draw. But the man who'd thrown the punch had just saved their lives riding a dragon.

None of them looked at each other. None of them spoke. The firewood in the hearth just kept burning, stray sparks popping loose every so often, falling into the ash, slowly going dark.

Drogo stepped back and looked down at Jon.

Jon lay on his side on the stone floor, one hand braced against the ground. The look on his face was neither anger nor surprise.

Drogo said through his teeth: "Saying something that shameless with a completely straight face. That's genuinely infuriating."

Jon made no move to get up. He reached up with his left hand and pushed a strand of hair from his face back behind his ear, turned his head slightly, and lowered his eyes.

A moment passed. His shoulders shifted. He slowly sat up.

His expression was like a man who had just dragged himself out of a river beginning to freeze, still working out how to exist on solid ground again.

His gaze didn't linger on Drogo's face. It drifted to the hearth fire.

➤ Next: Brothers