GOT: The Great — Chapter 298 - Someone Wants to Become a Dragon

Drogo raised his cup briefly, signaling the feast to continue.

Bronze Yohn straightened his sword belt. "I want to take Baelish's body back to the Vale."

He glanced down at the corpse on the floor. "He was Lysa's husband, after all. If you'll excuse me, King Drogo."

"You don't have to ride back to the Eyrie tonight."

"We leave at first light."

Drogo was about to reply when Drogon's roar reached them from outside.

Not his usual low rumble. Not his battle cry. Something else — shrill and piercing.

Drogo's cup slipped from his fingers and hit the table. Wine flooded the surface and ran off the edge in streams. He didn't look at it.

He ran. His boots skidded on the flagstones and sent a bench crashing over.

Out in the snow beyond the gates, Drogon was rolling.

His black wings curled open and folded back. His enormous body thrashed through the drifts.

Dragonfire burst from his throat in ragged, uncontrolled spurts, splattering the snow, blasting up clouds of steam.

The melt turned to white fog and swallowed half his body. Flames pulsed in and out of it, brightening and dying.

By the time Drogo reached the riverbank, Drogon lurched violently off the ground, beat his wings in wild strokes, and launched himself skyward.

He began to spin. Out of control, halfway up.

A column of black-red fire rained down from above, slashing diagonally into the Trident. Steam billowed off the water in a thick curtain and surged upward, blotting out every line of sight.

Then Drogon stopped beating his wings.

The whole dragon dropped straight down and hit the river like a stone.

The surface buckled. Waves surged outward on both sides and washed up the bank, soaking the soldiers who stood too close.

Drogon sank. Dragonfire erupted underwater, boiling a wide swath of the river in an instant. Bubbles churned up through the heat. The surface gurgled and rolled.

Steam rose in layer after layer and veiled the night sky.

The dragon pushed his head back up through the water and began rolling again, tail slamming against the loose stones of the riverbed with dull, heavy crashes, scales scraping across the submerged rock with a raw grinding shriek.

He opened his jaws and roared. The sound came up through the water muffled, like something forced up from deep underground.

Rhaegal and Viserion circled overhead. Neither dared to land. They flew loop after loop around Drogon, letting out low, agitated rumbles, the beat of their wings rising and falling in turn.

"Drogon!" Drogo stood at the bank. "I'm here! What's wrong with you! What's wrong with you!" He charged forward. The river rose over his boots, icy, bone-deep cold. He felt none of it.

He kept walking until the water reached his knees.

When he shouted, there was something in his voice. The kind of terror that only comes from watching someone you love suffer while you stand helpless, unable to do a thing.

"Drogon! I'm here!" he shouted again.

The dragon thrashed wildly in the water. Dragonfire surged up from below the surface and set the entire stretch of river ablaze in a sea of black flame.

Tormund came running up from behind and skidded to a breathless halt. He stared at the black dragon rolling in the current, his pupils snapping tight.

"I've seen this before — a skinchanger. It's a skinchanger." He said it straight to Drogo. "When an animal is fighting a skinchanger for control of its own body, it does exactly this. I've seen it."

Magnar Styr of the Thenns stood a few steps away. "Someone wants to become a dragon."

Drogo spun around. The expression on his face made the White Harbor soldiers stumble backward.

"Find the skinchanger. Kill him."

The Hundred Captains fanned out.

They went back to their units and pulled out every known skinchanger one by one. All of them could move freely. None had white eyes. Their minds were still inside their own bodies. It wasn't any of them.

Then the Hundred Captains began counting heads, sweeping for anyone unaccounted for. Anyone absent from their unit right now was a suspect.

Squad by squad. Man by man.

Torches moved back and forth through the camp, names called out one after another. Everyone answered.

Not one person missing. Every unit's count was full.

Tormund brought all the known skinchangers to Drogo and lined them up along the bank.

But the black dragon was still struggling. He had just hauled himself out of the river and landed on the bank, his claws gouging deep furrows into the frozen earth.

"The skinchanger is not in our host," Tormund said.

Drogo stood before the line and swept his gaze across it. Every pair of eyes was normal. Every gaze had focus.

He stood there useless, unable to do a single thing.

He watched Drogon slam his head against the ground. Watched his wings beat weakly against his sides.

His eyes went wet.

Borroq stood beside him, staring at the black dragon's struggle, his eyes burning with naked hunger.

"Controlling a bear is already this hard — and someone actually wants to control a dragon." He stepped forward. Tormund grabbed him and yanked him back.

The other skinchangers wore the same look. Every one of them. Hunger, barely contained.

Then Drogon stopped struggling.

The black dragon collapsed onto the bank. Wings sprawled limp at his sides. Tail trailing soft in the shallows at the water's edge.

His chest heaved. Each inhale dragged out a low, pained groan.

Drogo walked toward him slowly. Hesitatingly. With great care.

He was suddenly afraid. Drogon, are you still in there? Is it still you?

The fire resistance the Purple Dragon gave me is still basic level. Do I risk it?

No. This is a dragon. My dragon. My treasure. My life.

His stride steadied. He walked forward with resolve.

He reached out and stroked Drogon's face. His palm pressed against warm scales.

Drogon's eyelid twitched. Parted by a narrow slit. The slit pupils beneath were still glowing like burning embers.

Then Drogon pushed his snout forward and nuzzled it against Drogo's chest, and a low rumble rose from his throat.

"You won." The tears finally came. He rested his hand on Drogon's snout and pressed his forehead against the back of his own hand. "You won, Drogon. You won."

I'm going to find that person. Whoever they are, wherever they are, I will tear them apart piece by piece.

Not far away, deep in the forest, Bran Stark sat at the base of a tree. His eyes were open. The brown was slowly bleeding back into his irises, receding from white.

➤ Next: Finding the Culprit