GOT: The Great — Chapter 282 - Playing the Empty-City Gambit on Me?

At dawn, Last Hearth still reeked of ale.

The bonfires had burned down to scattered patches of ash-grey embers. The morning breeze caught them and sent thin drifts of grey dust curling up into the cold air.

Men lay across the courtyard in every direction — some clutching the swords they'd been given out, some using ale-skins as pillows, their snores rising and falling in uneven waves.

Drogo walked out of House Umber's great hall. His boots scraped against the stone steps with a sharp creak.

He swept the courtyard with one look, then tilted his head back toward Tormund Giantsbane. "Kick them all up."

Within moments the courtyard was loud with cursing and groaning.

The Thenn chieftain hauled himself out of a pile of straw, bits of dry grass stuck in his hair, face still red from last night's ale. He belched and shouted in Drogo's direction.

"Can't you let a man sleep a little longer?"

"No."

The wildlings were still sour with it when movement came from the gate.

The five Hundred Captains charged with protecting the old and the young had finally arrived with their columns.

Women and children came through wrapped in hides and heavy fur cloaks, strung out in a long line across the snow. The children's noses were red from the cold. A few of the smallest had been tied to their mothers' backs, half a face peeking out from the bundled furs.

Drogo gave them little time to reunite.

"All elders, women, and children stay at Last Hearth."

"Three companies to garrison the castle and guard those remaining. The other fifteen march south with me."

"Anyone who already has their share of the spoils and wants to leave something for their wife and children — go do it now."

The moment his words landed, the courtyard came alive.

Half an hour later the warband was in formation inside the walls.

Dawn light spilled over the horizon, thin and grey-blue, falling across the armor of the wildling warriors. That armor had still been stained with House Umber's blood yesterday. Today it had been hastily wiped down, but brown traces clung in the joints and seams. The plate was pitted and dented from the battles of its previous owners. Several coats of chainmail had half their rings snapped, re-lashed with strips of leather.

Facing the morning sun, all of it still gleamed.

Victory and plunder worked better than any speech.

No one dragged their feet. No one fell out of line. Even the Thenns and the Stonefoot men who had been glaring at each other the day before had sheathed their blades and were walking with their heads down, saying nothing.

The column wound out through the gate of Last Hearth like an iron-scaled serpent crawling out of its den, drawing a long arc across the snowfield.

Someone in the ranks began to hum — an old tune from beyond the Wall, about a wildling who killed seven men of the Night's Watch alone and died at the end beneath a weirwood tree.

The first half of the road from Last Hearth to Kaho wasn't bad going.

The wildlings had eaten their fill and drunk their fill, and they marched with the expectation of whatever riches the next town might offer. Their pace was quicker for it.

Two days, and they reached the forest on the outskirts of Kaho.

The snow was deep to mid-calf. The wildlings had spent their whole lives walking through snow; this was nothing. Northmen covering the same distance would need at least 4 days.

Drogo still found it too slow. On dragonback he could reach Kaho in less than half a day.

He circled high above on his dragon, loop after loop, waiting for the ground forces to close the distance. Every time he looked down he saw the same thing: black specks crawling through white, dense and slow, like a column of ants moving across a blank sheet of paper.

The ground forces still had to push through roughly 30 leagues of forest before they'd see Kaho's walls. Forest was different from open ground, roots tangled underfoot, the snow was loose and soft, every step uncertain. Even for wildlings, Drogo reckoned it would take another 2 days.

"I'll ride ahead," he told the Hundred Captains. "Keep pushing through the trees. Clear the forest and you'll see Kaho."

Tormund Giantsbane nodded once and asked nothing.

Before long, Kaho's grey outline appeared ahead.

He had Drogon circle low, one full sweep around the walls. The battlements had barely a handful of guards, he couldn't count 20 men. Firewood was stacked on the signal beacon. The fire hadn't been lit.

He already knew Kaho had taken heavy losses over the years. But seeing defenses this hollow with his own eyes still felt almost unbelievable.

He was still deciding the best angle to come down from when the gates of Kaho swung open from the inside.

Drogo pressed a hand against the dragon saddle and narrowed his eyes at the shadows behind those wide-open gates.

No soldiers charging out. Not one man raising a shield.

"Surely they're not trying the empty-city trick on me," he murmured.

He brought Drogon down onto the snow outside the gate. The dragon's claws sank into the packed snow. Viserion and Rhaegal settled on either flank, wings folding slowly inward.

What flew above Kaho's walls was not House Bolton's flayed man. It was not House Karstark's white sunburst on black. It was a plain white banner, white cloth lashed to a spear shaft, stretched taut in the wind.

No archers at the draw. No soldiers running. No shouting.

Then a figure appeared on the gatehouse.

No armor. Lean build. Dark grey cloak, the hood blown half back by the wind. Both hands rested empty on the lip of the battlement, no sword, no shield, no attendant beside him.

Sunlight caught his face from the side. A man around fifty: high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a beard cut short and neat.

He stood at the merlon and looked down at Drogo's 3 dragons lying still on the snow below.

"I am Harold Karstark. Cousin to old Earl Rickard, and acting lord of Kaho."

"I know you have taken the Iron Throne in King's Landing. We received word of Last Hearth's fall as well."

"The gates burned by dragonfire. Wildlings storming the castle. House Umber's garrison unable to hold."

"We know the Dothraki horselord has reclaimed the Iron Throne for House Targaryen." He paused. "But how did you come to be riding with wildlings?"

Drogo was still on dragonback, one hand loose on the reins, eyes up on the gatehouse.

"Are you here to surrender, or to lecture me?"

"Only curious," Harold said. "No offense was meant, my lord."

He drew his hands back from the battlements. Turned and walked away from the edge.

A moment later, footsteps came from inside the gate passage.

Harold walked out of the shadow, passed through the tunnel, and stepped alone onto the snow. He stopped at roughly 15 paces from Drogon.

"Kaho is yours," he said, and stepped aside to clear the path to the gate. "Please. Come in."

Drogo's eyes moved instinctively to the shadows flanking the gatehouse. His hand drifted toward his weapon without him deciding to move it.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The snowfield behind him was empty. The wildling warband was still somewhere in the forest.

He was out here alone.

➤ Next: Taking Kaho