The voice was soft, yet it carried a cold desolation that chilled the soul of anyone it targeted. One of the Qartheen assassins from the Gui
The voice was soft, yet it carried a cold desolation that chilled the soul of anyone it targeted.
One of the Qartheen assassins from the Guild of Regret raised a hand to her temple and drew forth a slender silver needle sharp enough to pierce a heart.
The other removed a jade bracelet from her wrist, lightly twisted it—click—and a hidden clasp gave way, neatly splitting the bracelet into two symmetrical halves.
With a few practiced motions, a razor-thin blade no larger than half a fingernail flicked out from the hollow inside.
A knight might scoff at such a tiny weapon—but it could slit Drogo's throat with ease.
Their killing tools were exquisitely hidden and complex, yet they retrieved them in less than three breaths. Throughout the process, their eyes never left Drogo—one fixated on the little giant's heart, the other licking her lips, gaze locked on his exposed throat.
Though they appeared to be of an innocent age, the two killers were cold and merciless.
Assassination was a matter of speed.
Just as Drogo was about to be stabbed in the heart and have his throat cut, a white blur slipped into the tent from outside. It opened its mouth—not to roar, but to emit a low, threatening growl.
The noise wasn't quiet. The assassins heard it—but too late. Snowball leapt and pinned one of them to the ground. Then with a savage twist, he tore out a chunk of her throat. Her scream barely lasted a second.
Splurt!
A spray of warm blood drenched the second assassin's face—not all of it from her companion. A portion came from her own heart, impaled by Grey Worm's spear, who had been just a few beats slower than the white lion.
When Drogo awoke, he summoned Cary for questioning. After a thorough inquiry, he confirmed the man's innocence.
The women were indeed Qartheen—unaging faces, eloquent tongues, and weapons of lethal craft. A mercenary from Qarth who heard the commotion came forward to report that the women were unmistakably assassins from the Guild of Regret.
The Guild of Regret killed only for coin. From this, Drogo deduced that at least one of the nobles who had appeared on the city walls earlier—perhaps all of them—wanted him dead.
Snowball sat faithfully at his feet, blood dripping from his maw, eyes shining eerily in the dim tent.
"Snowball, you were brave. Thank you," Drogo said softly, reaching down to rub the beast's head.
This was the little lion's first kill. A step forward—praise was due.
The assassination attempt had burned away any sleepiness. The wine had worn off. Drogo stepped out into the night to breathe the air beneath the blood moon and to take a look at Qarth.
Assassins from the Guild had moved against the king. He had nearly died before the Golden Company could even properly swear fealty. Cary, still flushed from drink and sweating cold, personally led a detachment to safeguard Drogo.
As they rode near the gates, Drogo looked up and noticed that the guards on the walls had doubled since daylight. Archers clad in gem-studded copper-scale armor, wearing long-snouted helms adorned with black feathers, stood at the ready with crossbows in hand.
"When they thought there'd be no war, they flaunted their wealth and arrogance. Now that I've accepted their tribute, why send assassins after me? And reinforce their defenses? This doesn't look like peace—it smells of betrayal."
Drogo couldn't fathom what the nobles were thinking. Did they truly value gold more than life?
Even if they feared the deal might collapse, he hadn't roused his warriors. Let those two-faced lords live in delusion a few more hours. They were his to trample, eventually.
"Let's return to camp."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The Khal's tent stood in the center of the Dothraki camp. When Drogo returned to Daenerys' side, she was fast asleep. No one dared disobey orders to wake her—or tell her that her husband had nearly died in the arms of two beautiful assassins.
Lying awake beside her, Drogo couldn't sleep.
Then a strange voice drifted to his ears—mocking, sly, oddly distant and near all at once:
"Drogo Khal... it has been a long time. Come out—we must speak."
The voice was eerie and familiar. Drogo's heart skipped. He recognized it instantly: Pyat Pree, the great warlock of the House of the Undying.
He scanned the tent—no one was inside.
The warlocks of Qarth moved like shadows, slipping between realms. In such cases, numbers were useless. How could you fight something you couldn't even find?
"Perfect timing."
Drogo wanted to speak with the warlock. He ordered Grey Worm to rouse the Bloodriders and bring Missandei to form two defensive circles. Only then did he feel safe enough to don his bow and blade and step outside.
After the assassination attempt, those with status begged to accompany him to protect his safety. But Drogo refused them all.
"Some matters—even a Khal must face alone."
And off he went, without offering further explanation.
He was never truly alone. His loyal companion followed at his side. Snowball, now clean of blood, let out the occasional growl as they wandered far from camp.
Drogo knew: only in a barren wasteland would a creature that fed on shadow and dust dare show itself.
He chose a low basin nestled among hillocks and called out loudly: "I'm here. Come out!"
Whoosh!
A breeze passed through. Drogo shivered slightly but paid it no mind.
Whooosh... whooosh...!
Wind blew from all directions, rhythmic and unnatural.
He was surrounded by high ridges. There should have been no wind. Drogo scoffed, "Hmph. Cheap tricks."
A lesser man would've been terrified.
But Drogo was no fool. He drew his Valyrian steel arakh and stood ready. The next gust—he'd slash into it.
But no matter how quickly he struck, he heard no screams.
If he kept going like this, he'd look like an idiot.
"Ugly warlock! Keep playing games and I'll get bored. Then I'll bring a host and tear your precious House of the Undying down stone by stone!"
He wasn't bluffing—and he wasn't afraid.
"Snowball, we're leaving."
The lion had started to wander off. Worried he might lose it, Drogo stepped forward.
But as he neared the beast, his breath caught.
A strange sensation shook him to the core—Snowball's scarred forehead began to split like an eyelid… revealing a vertical eye.
In that miraculous moment, Drogo nearly screamed—but held it back.
For within that eye… he saw the pale skin and blue lips of Pyat Pree.
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