GOT: The Great — Chapter 284 - The Giant Is Not As Smart As Hodor

The giants walked at the front.

One had to duck his head just to clear the gate tunnel, his shoulders scraping both stone walls. Once inside, he straightened up, a full head taller than the roof of the two-story building beside him.

The steel pipe on his shoulder was thicker than the gate bar. He set it down gently, and the bluestone pavement cracked white beneath it.

The mammoths came next, pressing through the tunnel behind him. Too narrow for them straight on, they had to turn sideways to squeeze through, the long fur along their bellies dragging against the stone and tearing away in great patches, exposing the dull gray hide beneath.

A child from Kaho sat in an adult's arms, eyes wide as saucers, pointing at the mammoth's tusks. His mouth moved but nothing came out, just "ah, ah," no complete syllables.

When the skinchangers walked in with their beasts, both sides of the street took one step back without a word spoken between them.

The bear's nose swung left and right, catching the scent of cured meat hanging under the eaves. A low rumble built in its throat. The woman beside it pressed her hand to its neck, said something soft, and the bear went quiet.

The giant boar followed, hooves clacking against the stone road.

Then came fifteen hundred wildlings.

They wore armor stripped from Last Hearth. Some of it didn't fit, plates hanging loose off the shoulders, swaying with every step. Some of it was too large, knee guards sliding down while they walked, men hitching them up again without breaking stride.

The bloodstains and rust had merged into one color, dark and sunken in the afternoon light.

But their eyes held no exhaustion. Only curiosity. Only satisfaction.

Someone in the column let out a whistle, head tilted back at the intact timber buildings and stone houses lining Kaho's main street.

"This place is bigger than Last Hearth," someone called out.

The person beside them scoffed. "You've only ever been to Last Hearth."

The people of Kaho stood along the street, wrapped in cloaks, pressed together, watching in silence as the column moved through.

An apprentice at the blacksmith's shop stood in the doorway, hammer frozen in midair, forgotten before it could fall.

An old woman stood behind an upstairs window, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers gripping the curtain's edge.

The old man with the full head of white hair watched the giant pass before him and muttered to himself, the same word over and over. It sounded like "impossible." "Impossible."

Harold Carstark stood at the door of the great hall, eyes moving across the wildlings filling the street, heads turning this way and that, taking everything in.

He turned and said a few words to a servant. Before long, several maids came out of the kitchen carrying wooden buckets of freshly heated stew, steam rolling in white waves against the cold wind.

Bread followed, baked a little hard, but real bread all the same.

When Tormund took the hot food, he looked like a man who'd forgotten what it felt like. He raised his voice: "Follow the Dragon King — eat well, drink well!"

Drogo watched the wildlings on the street gather around the buckets and divide up the food.

No one caused trouble. No one drew a blade. No one forced their way through any door they had no right to enter.

They squatted by the roadside, sat on stone steps, leaned against the base of walls, and ate quietly with bowls of hot soup in their hands.

They had Drogo's promise. They had felt Kaho's respect. No one stirred.

That evening, Drogo summoned the city's blacksmith.

The man was in his early forties, broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, with two folds of flesh stacked at the back of his neck. He stood in the great hall not knowing where to put his hands, eyes fixed on the hearth fire rather than Drogo's face.

"How many blacksmiths does your city have?" Drogo asked.

"Twenty-one," the blacksmith said. "And two apprentices."

"That's enough."

Drogo stood and walked to stand before him, looking him over.

"I want you to forge armor for the giants. Breastplates, pauldrons, helmets — nothing fine, just enough to stop arrows and blades."

The blacksmith opened his mouth. His brow creased, then creased deeper, running the numbers.

"As for weapons," Drogo continued, "the giants are using steel pipes right now. Too uniform."

"Forge them a batch of heavier, thicker iron clubs. War hammers. Real weight to them — heavy enough that when they swing, they cave in a city gate."

The blacksmith found his voice. "My king... I'm afraid the city doesn't have enough iron. With the size of a giant, the iron for one suit of their armor could make a dozen suits for men."

"If iron's not enough, use bronze. Collect every piece of metal in the city that can be smelted."

The blacksmith said nothing more. He gave a single nod, turned, and walked out.

Drogo went back to the hearth and sat down.

The firelight moved across his face. He rested his hands on his knees and listened, wildlings talking on the street outside, the low murmur of giants, the occasional deep call of a mammoth.

His main force still had to push south.

But before that, he had to make this ragged army look like something.

He thought of what Jon Snow had said about the giants: "He's twice as big as Hodor, twice as strong, and only half as smart."

Not bright. But the sheer size, the sheer strength, it would be a waste to leave all that combat power idle.

He raised his cup and took a drink, listening to the first hammer-strike ring out from the distant forge.

Harold Carstark looked out at the wildlings settled along the street.

They leaned against walls, squatted on stone steps, held out wooden bowls to be filled with hot soup from the buckets. When they finished, they set their bowls in the snow, pulled their cloaks tight, and dozed off where they sat.

Cold wind poured in from the far end of the street. Not a single one got up to find shelter under an eave.

He sought out Drogo. "Should your soldiers be moved into the residents' homes? It's bitter cold out."

Drogo sat before the hearth with his back to him and tossed a log into the fire.

"They're already far from the Wall. They've never been anywhere this warm."

Harold wasn't quite sure if that was meant as a joke.

"Kaho's walls are blocking most of the wind. This kind of cold is nothing to them." Drogo said. "Have you seen the Hardfoot clan? Bare feet in the snow, and they don't catch a chill."

Harold nodded.

He nodded, and didn't leave. His hands clasped before him, thumbs rubbing slowly together. His lips parted, then closed.

Drogo knew there was something else.

"You're not this concerned about the wildlings." He turned to look at Harold. "What is it you actually want to say?"

"I was wondering... King Drogo, how long do you plan to stay in Kaho?"

"This is my city. I'll stay as long as I please."

"And don't think surrendering means you keep your lordship," Drogo continued. "Surrendering earns you your lives. Nothing more."

Harold was quiet for a moment.

"Then I was wondering..." His voice had gone drier. "Who do you intend to name as lord of Kaho?"

"I'll send officials to govern it. There will be no more lords."

Harold's eyelid twitched.

"Look at House Carstark, betrayal the moment it suited you. Mid-battle, pulling the army away just like that, leaving your own king stranded on the field. I will not be setting up lords again."

Harold's expression didn't change much.

Lips still pressed together. Eye sockets still sunken deep.

But when the fire suddenly flared, flooding the entire hall with light for just one instant, Drogo caught something pass through his eyes.

A venom that seeped out from between the bones.

Just for an instant.

Harold lowered his head. When he raised it again, his face had settled back into that obedient, faintly weary calm.

"I understand," he said, very quietly. "I understand."

Drogo didn't look away.

He watched Harold step back, give a slight bow, then turn and walk toward the door.

➤ Next: Davos Seaworth