GOT: The Great — Chapter 300 - The Dragon That Cannot Breathe Fire
Above the walls of King's Landing, as three dragons spiraled down from the sky, the master of horse at the Red Keep glanced up once, then went back to filling the feeding troughs with hay.
Drogo swung down from Drogon's back, his boots striking the stone of the Red Keep's inner courtyard. Daenerys walked out from the portico.
She wore a deep purple gown, her silver-gold hair braided into a thick plait draped over one shoulder. A few attendants trailed behind her, but she walked faster than any of them.
"Drogon has grown again." She stepped up to the black dragon and reached out to scratch beneath his jaw.
Drogon lowered his head. A deep rumble rose from his throat, and his hot breath gusted across her palm.
She pulled her hand back and looked over the dragon armor strapped to the saddle. It had been stretched badly out of shape, several iron rings at the chest plate had snapped, and the leather straps at the shoulder joints had split, the breaks still fresh.
"Right, burst out of it again." Drogo patted Drogon's shoulder blade. Warm to the touch.
Ao Bing's growth bond was genuinely something. "What about Ao Bing? He's gotten a lot bigger too, I imagine." he asked.
"Already the size of a small foal." Daenerys turned and started toward the Dragonpit. "But there's something strange — he still can't breathe fire."
"Seriously?" Drogo fell into step beside her. "Come on, let's go see."
The Dragonpit had been rebuilt. It was no longer the ruin it had once been.
Ao Bing lay against the wall with his wings folded flat at his sides, his tail swishing lazily back and forth.
He heard their footsteps and lifted his head. His purple scales caught the dim light with a soft iridescence.
Daenerys and Drogo each mounted their own dragon. Their two-and-a-half-year-old son Rhaego was lifted onto Ao Bing's back by Drogo, who buckled the saddle straps tight around him. The boy gripped the handles with both hands, legs clamped firm, not a trace of fear on his face.
Ao Bing rose beneath the boy, shook out his wings, threw his head back and roared at the sky, his voice still carrying the high, reedy pitch of a young dragon.
The four dragons leaped from the Dragonpit one after another.
Drogo rode Drogon at the front. Daenerys rode Rhaegal on the left, Viserion on the right, and their son rode Ao Bing behind them.
A family of three. Four dragons. Circling above King's Landing.
As they swept over the tops of the Red Keep's towers, the sentries on the walls glanced up once and went back to their patrols.
The people of King's Landing had long since stopped looking at dragons. Only a handful of merchants from the Reach still stood at the roadside craning their necks, mouths hanging open wide enough to fit an egg.
They circled the Blackwater Rush once, then hovered in the airspace above the Dragonpit.
Daenerys called the command down to her son. Time for Ao Bing to breathe fire.
The little one nodded, clamped both legs tight against the dragon's back, drew a deep breath, and shouted: "Dracarys!"
Ao Bing opened his mouth.
His chest swelled. A wet gurgling rose from his throat.
Then he coughed twice. Several gobs of sticky liquid came splattering out.
"He can't breathe fire." Daenerys's tone was perfectly calm.
Drogo rode Drogon around to Ao Bing's side. The little one hugged the dragon's neck and looked back at Drogo, expression set in flat defiance. "Again, Papa." He turned back to Ao Bing. "Dracarys."
Ao Bing coughed again. Another glob of phlegm.
"Alright." Drogo said it to reassure Rhaego, and himself. "If he can't breathe fire, he can't breathe fire. Four dragons is still better than three. Flying with a rider is plenty useful — you can have him as your personal mount from now on."
Ao Bing seemed to recognize his own name. He threw his head back and called out toward Drogo, and a fresh stream of sticky substance shot from his throat, splattering across Drogon's tail.
Drogon looked back. His slit pupils contracted. A jet of black smoke blew from his nostrils.
After dinner, Daenerys handed Rhaego off to the handmaids to put to bed, then took Drogo by the hand and led him up the stone steps of the Red Keep.
They stood together at the top of the tower. The night wind off Blackwater Bay came rolling in from the sea, carrying salt and the warm, distant glow of fishing lights.
The ten thousand lights of King's Landing spread out within the city walls. The noise of the streets had long since settled into quiet.
"Something happened in the city while you were gone." Daenerys's voice was flat. "The Tears of Lys. Someone poisoned a wine jug — when it was brought before me, an oily film had risen to the surface of the cup. The servant who carried it was pushed into the sea from the kitchen's back door before anyone could get a name out of him."
Drogo frowned. He didn't speak right away. The Tears of Lys, colorless, odorless. "How did you know the wine was poisoned?"
"The red priest you left in King's Landing told me. I didn't quite believe it, so I fed the wine to a rabbit. The rabbit died on the spot."
"There's more." Daenerys said. "Tyrion Lannister is in King's Landing. He comes to the Red Keep every day, demands an audience every day. I told him you hadn't returned yet, he just waited outside the Throne Room. Day after day."
"Is he still here?" Drogo asked.
"He was here today."
Drogo turned and headed down the tower steps. "You should have told me sooner." Daenerys followed behind him, the hem of her skirt brushing softly against the stone. "You had just come home. I wanted to let you spend some time with your son first."
Drogo went directly to the Throne Room and took his seat on the Iron Throne.
Daenerys sat to his left on a chair that had been brought in for the occasion. Margaery Tyrell sat to his right. Sansa Stark sat beside Margaery. Lady Stoneheart stood below the throne, still wearing the veil that covered half her face, only her eyes exposed.
Tyrion Lannister stood in the center of the Throne Room, his short legs planted wide apart, like a crooked tree battered by storms again and again that simply refused to fall.
"You broke your word." Tyrion spoke without preamble, without even a courtesy title. Straight to it.
"What did you promise me? You sent me north to capture a wight. You said you would wait for me to return to King's Landing. You said you would prove to all of Westeros that the White Walkers were real."
"While I was away, you marched on King's Landing. You killed my father. You promised me you would let me persuade them to surrender."
"Done?" Drogo leaned back against the throne, fingers slowly drumming on the armrest.
Tyrion looked at him. His right hand shifted slightly.
Drogo had seen through the scheme long ago. "Because I saw through your plot from the start. Cersei would never have surrendered. You only wanted to buy her time, so the forces from Braavos could come to her aid. Or wait for the assassin to finish the job."
"You say you despise Cersei. But you love her. You're simply jealous that she was willing to open her legs for Jaime, and not for you."
The old scar running across Tyrion Lannister's nose trembled faintly. He was about to fire back when another voice cut him off.
"And your family are my enemies." Lady Stoneheart said. "Joffrey Baratheon killed my husband. Your father, Tywin Lannister, arranged the murder of my eldest son at the Red Wedding. Your brother Jaime pushed my son from a tower. Every last one of the Lannisters owes a blood debt to House Stark."
The temperature in the Throne Room dropped sharply.
Margaery Tyrell's wine cup froze in midair. Sansa Stark's fingers tightened on the armrest. Daenerys's violet eyes narrowed. Lady Stoneheart stood without moving, only the pair of eyes visible beneath her veil slowly turning.
➤ Next: Reckoning