GOT: The Great — Chapter 288 - She Threw Up

Drogo stood on the pebble shore, the river wind throwing his hair into a mess.

His dragon crouched behind him, wings half-folded, a low rumble rolling in his throat.

He had meant to fly straight there. Riding Drogon, he could reach Winterfell in half a day. Sansa was there, and the White Harbor army was there — no reason to waste even a single meal's worth of time.

But he turned and looked back toward the Dreadfort.

The wildling host was still inside, tallying spoils.

Fifteen hundred-man companies, over a thousand mouths, had just hauled salted meat and iron ingots out of the Dreadfort's storerooms and were squatting in the streets dividing the loot.

He had put Davos in temporary charge, but the wildlings didn't recognize the White Harbor banner. They didn't recognize Davos either.

If he simply flew off now, the two sides had never laid eyes on each other. If they crossed paths, there'd be a fight.

"Find three cables," he told Davos. "Tie them to the prow of your flagship."

Davos looked at the dragon behind Drogo. A moment of silence. Then he swallowed down the words what are you planning and said, "As you wish, Your Grace."

The cables hung from the flagship's hull. Drogo tied all three lines to the legs of Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal.

From Drogon's saddle, he turned and shouted to the whole ship: "Hold on tight. Anyone goes overboard, I won't turn back to fish you out."

All three dragons spread their wings at once. The cables snapped taut.

The prow lurched sharply upward. Every man on deck pitched backward in unison — someone slammed into a mast, someone grabbed the railing, and one young sailor went sprawling flat on his back.

The dragons hauled at low altitude, dragging the ship upriver against the current of the Weeping Water. The prow split the water into two white walls that rolled away on both sides of the hull.

On the walls of the Dreadfort, Tormund was gnawing on a roasted horse leg.

He watched three dragons drag the flagship racing toward him from downstream, and forgot to chew.

A giant stood up, pointed his iron bar at the river, and let out a low rumbling grunt, something that probably meant look at that.

When they reached the Dreadfort, Drogo summoned all fifteen Hundred Captains to the great hall.

They filed in jostling and shoving each other.

Tormund was the last inside, shoulder leaning against the doorframe, war hammer planted at his feet.

"This man," Drogo said, pointing to Davos at his side, "is Davos Seaworth. From today, he manages the Dreadfort in my name. The storerooms, the defenses, the gates — all under his authority. His word is my word."

The Hundred Captains looked Davos over with varying expressions.

Drogo didn't linger. As he walked out of the great hall he turned back and added one last thing: "Anyone who gives him trouble gives me trouble."

Then he swung up onto the dragon's back, and Drogon took a few running strides.

The moment his wings unfurled, the wildlings in the courtyard instinctively stepped back.

All three dragons swept one after another over the castle walls. The black dragon banner churned in the gust of their passing. Then the Dreadfort was left behind.

It shrank smaller and smaller, fading to a grey dot, and was swallowed by the snowfields.

This time Drogo didn't wait for the ground forces.

Davos's intelligence had confirmed the White Harbor army was already at Winterfell. Infantry slogging through snow would need at least 10 days to cover the same ground. On dragonback, he wouldn't need even one.

The Manderly men had already made camp. There was no reason to wait for anyone traveling on foot.

By the time Drogo flew over Winterfell, the night had gone completely black.

The northern night was dark as ink-soaked cloth. The moon was buried in cloud, leaking only a blurred ring of cold light.

He circled twice. He couldn't make out anything below, only a stretch of silent darkness lying across the snowfields, broken occasionally by a horse's whinny.

"Dracarys!"

All three dragons opened their mouths. Dragonfire poured down from the night sky and burned half the heavens gold and red.

The firelight exploded, and everything below was lit at once.

Tents spread across the snowfields like rows of white burial mounds. The campfires were mostly out, only a few piles of ashes still smoldering. Banners hung limp on their poles, then were ripped open by the gust off the dragon wings, the direwolf and the White Harbor merman.

He saw the grey walls of Winterfell. The ice-crusted moat ringing the outside. The stretch of snow between the camp and the gates, trampled into chaos.

A commotion stirred through the camp.

Men came bursting out of tents with swords already drawn, thinking an attack had come out of Winterfell.

Then more sounds, shifting from alarm into cheering.

Their own people.

Drogo pulled the reins. Drogon folded his wings and descended toward the camp.

By the time he landed, some of the camp had already formed up in lines. Manderly heavy infantry stood on both sides of the camp gate, the merman sigils on their armor flickering in and out of the firelight.

He swung down from the dragon's back.

Sansa came out from between the rows of tents.

Her pregnant belly pushed against a heavy fur cloak, and every step pitched her weight slightly forward, but she didn't slow down. The torchlight fell across her face from the side and picked out her cheekbones and jaw with perfect clarity.

Sansa Stark stopped in front of him.

Her breathing was quick. White breath came from her mouth, coiled once in the space between them, and faded.

"You came."

Drogo looked at her, just starting to answer.

She pulled him into the tent.

The flap fell. The wind and the sound of footsteps were left somewhere far outside.

The coals in the brazier were burning hot. The air inside was far warmer than outside, carrying a faint smell of tallow candles.

Drogo had not had any relief in days.

He said nothing. He reached out and pressed his hand to the back of her head.

"Take care of it," he said. The same tone he'd use ordering a fresh horse.

His fingers threaded through her hair and pressed flat against her scalp.

A long while passed.

"Swallow it," Drogo said.

Sansa pressed one hand against her belly. Her breathing was still unsteady, her chest rising and falling. "A child absorbs what its mother takes in," she said, then bent over and threw it up.

She dry-heaved twice, wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve, then straightened and reached up to pull him into a kiss.

Drogo pushed her back. "Sleep."

Sansa looked at him with wounded eyes. "You always do this."

He pulled her into his arms and held her close.

That night he didn't touch her.

From the direction of Winterfell, nothing moved.

The gates were shut fast. The torches on the walls swayed in the wind and snow like cups being pushed back and forth by unseen hands.

The Flayed Man's banner hung from the gatehouse tower, soaked heavy with snow, dragging down the pole, too waterlogged to stir even a fold.

The whole city seemed to be holding its breath.

➤ Next: Ramsay Is Not at Winterfell Either