A lion with three eyes—this was the first time Drogo had ever seen such a thing. Anyone would have found it astonishing. Yet the warlock lur
A lion with three eyes—this was the first time Drogo had ever seen such a thing. Anyone would have found it astonishing. Yet the warlock lurking in the shadow behind him wore a mocking smirk, showing no sign of surprise. Clearly, Pyat Pree had not yet noticed the anomaly in Snowball.
Without changing expression, Drogo shifted his massive frame, subtly positioning himself to use the crescent moon's shadow to obscure the white lion's special eye—while still giving it a clear line of sight toward the enemy.
With that done, he slowly sheathed his Valyrian steel arakh, then unstrapped the bone bow from his back. Reaching behind his neck, he drew an arrow, nocked it, and loosed it in a sudden motion.
Thwip!
The arrow flew with a force far beyond what any ordinary man could muster, piercing deep into the red stone of a distant ridge, leaving only the feathered shaft visible.
Pyat Pree assumed the savage was merely venting frustration and scoffed, "Hahaha... a headless fly that can't smell rot, stabbing its beak blindly into a crowd of fools."
The warlock's jeer ended abruptly as he instantly shifted positions, never giving Drogo a chance to pinpoint his voice.
Warlocks who study the decaying forbidden arts shun the brightness of day, drink from the Waters of Night until their lips turn blue, and chant dark promises of power. Drogo thought their theatrics were mere illusions to feign otherworldliness, claim dominance, and instill awe or fear.
Hearing the taunt, Drogo's lips curled into a cold sneer. Guided by Snowball's vertical eye, he loosed another arrow without hesitation.
The warlock, thinking Drogo had lost composure, folded his arms and observed with a smirk, watching the supposed fool flail in vain.
That was his mistake.
Suddenly, Drogo spun—this time truly guided by the white lion's eye—and fired a bolt that struck true.
"AHH!"
A guttural scream rang out as blue blood spilled onto the red dust. Pyat Pree's hiding place was laid bare.
Drogo already knew from the desolate City of Bones that the warlocks drew power from their magic drink. Now, with an arrow in his leg, Pyat Pree bled out its essence, crippling his spellwork. Though still partially shrouded in shadow, he could no longer remain invisible.
Drogo readied another arrow. This time, the warlock didn't use magic. Clutching his wounded leg and baring his teeth in pain, he scurried away like a wounded rat.
One more shot would have ended him. But Pyat Pree ran like a common man, not a warlock, and Drogo knew then: his shadow-stepping magic had failed.
Drogo held his fire.
He still needed this sorcerer alive to find the House of the Undying.
Slowly, he slung the bow back over his shoulder and drew his arakh, approaching steadily.
Knowing he couldn't escape Drogo's gaze, Pyat Pree froze.
With his Valyrian blade pointed at the warlock's chest, Drogo looked down on his twisted, resentful expression. His loathing for sorcerers—born of his hatred for Mirri Maz Duur—resurfaced.
With a frown, he asked coldly, "Your tricks don't frighten me. Speak clearly. What do you want?"
Cautiously, Pyat Pree rasped, "The Undying Ones have granted my request. They agree to receive you. Come with me to the House of the Undying. There, you will drink truth and wisdom. However..."
He trailed off.
Drogo's gaze sharpened. "Qarth has an old saying: A warlock's house is built of bones and lies. Are you sure this crumbling ruin doesn't trade life or soul for so-called truth? And what's your 'however'?"
The warlock flinched slightly and muttered, his blue lips twitching. "Khal, you are overly cautious. To be summoned by the Undying Ones is an honor. They are eternal—what need have they for your life or soul? But the situation has changed. Xaro Xhoan Daxos has broken his vow. He fled Qarth through ancient tunnels and set sail for the Sunset Lands. The royal court has gathered the remaining members of the Thirteen, the pirate lords of the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the perfumers of the Spice Guild, and even the head of the Assassins' Guild. They all conspire now to kill you and keep you from reaching the truth."
Recalling the reinforced defenses atop Qarth's walls, Drogo found some of this credible. He thought darkly: So that's it. I was a fool to believe the Glorious City could truly offer a tribute so grand that even the histories held no record. Clearly, the elites of Qarth were duped by Xaro as well.
He sneered. "You betray your own people so easily. I don't care. But why do you keep urging me to meet the Undying? My wife is the true child of the dragon. The Bleeding Star points her way."
The warlock shook his head, visibly annoyed. "The Undying wish to see you, not Daenerys Targaryen. Their will cannot be guessed, nor questioned. But if you refuse, the Door of Wisdom will be closed to you forever."
From his robe, he pulled a small crystal vial filled with a thick, blue liquid.
"But to honor the Father of Dragons," Pyat Pree added with a sly smile, "I offer this. Drink it, and you shall glimpse the light lit by the Undying themselves. It will open your ears, sharpen your eyes. Perhaps it will let you reach through the door..."
Drogo's thoughts raced. The warlock could be slain at any moment, and yet he remained unnervingly calm. Was it blind faith that made him fearless? Or something else?
He recognized the vial. The Waters of Night. The same potion Daenerys had drunk before entering the House of the Undying in the tales—granting her visions of what was to come.
As clouds passed over the blood moon, Snowball's vertical eye shut. The white lion whimpered and rubbed against his leg, clearly distressed.
But the temptation of seeing the future was strong. After a moment's hesitation, Drogo took the vial.
Lifting it to his lips, the first taste was vile—like water steeped in rot and death. His stomach lurched violently. He nearly retched, but forced it down.
After drinking the whole thing, he felt the potion rapidly coursing through his body.
Tendrils of energy spread through his chest, as if flames were coiling around his heart. On his tongue bloomed the taste of honey, anise, milk—and then hot blood and molten gold.
It was every taste Drogo had ever known—and none of them. The totality of life's sensations in one sip.
Whether it was the potion or the alcohol he'd drunk earlier reacting, he wasn't sure—but as the warlock chanted incantations in an unknown tongue, his form slowly faded.
Not just Pyat Pree—Snowball, the world, the entire desert faded too.
Blue mist rolled in, thick and endless, like a curtain pulled back before a grand performance.
And within that mist, floating in a small space, was a grotesquely swollen, rotting heart—deep blue and bruised, yet somehow alive.
It beat slowly. With every throb came a deep hum, and waves of sapphire light pulsed outward.
It hovered just within reach.
Drogo could hear his own heart thudding loudly—and realized, with dawning horror, that the rhythms matched. Perfectly.
Could this heart... be his?
Driven by a terrible curiosity, he reached out.
His palm touched the heart—and instantly, his whole body seized. A mysterious force pulled the vitality from his flesh, funneling it into the decayed heart.
His hand began to wither, crack, and lose its color—
Terror gripped him.
He tried to yank it away—but his hand was fused to it.
They were one.
That heart was draining his life.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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