Chapter 9 — Ruthless Pursuit
A Dothraki warrior suddenly clutched his throat.
Blood trickled between his fingers… and behind him stood Pyat Pree, a dagger in hand.
Shff!
Rakharo reacted instantly—his blade plunged straight into Pyat Pree's back.
But the warlock did not flinch.
Not even a twitch.
Rakharo yanked the dagger free—
and the stabbed figure collapsed into nothing more than a crumpled gray robe.
The real Pyat Pree still stood exactly where he had been moments before—untouched.
Drogon immediately bathed the area in dragonfire.
But only the empty robe burned.
"Your dragon has quite the temper," came Pyat Pree's voice again—from the ruined gate.
"Will you still refuse to come?"
Daenerys stared at the wounded warrior, then at the unharmed warlock, then at Jorah. Her voice trembled despite her resolve:
"Your arts are beyond comprehension. Very well. I will go to the House of the Undying… and meet your Undying Ones."
"Welcome indeed."
Pyat Pree bowed with eerie grace, then drifted through the broken gate—and vanished.
Everyone froze.
Even Drogon could only gape.
A clone? A projection? Teleportation?
Drogon had not expected a warlock's tricks to be this uncanny.
He knew magic existed in this world—
the Old Gods, the New, the Lord of Light, the Many-Faced God…
and stranger powers still.
He thought of Melisandre, birthing a shadow assassin that murdered Renly Baratheon…
of blood magic and leeches that killed three false kings…
of Jon Snow dragged back from death…
of Beric Dondarrion resurrected seven times…
of Bran Stark, the greenseer…
and now this warlock.
Suddenly, Drogon felt a chill.
Even a future dragon might not be as invincible as he imagined.
If Pyat Pree had struck at him with that dagger—would he have survived?
Jorah's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Khaleesi… you cannot go. Those who enter the House of the Undying rarely return."
"I can't stand here and watch you all die," Daenerys whispered.
That lone cut on the warrior's neck had been shallow—but no one doubted Pyat Pree could have slit all their throats effortlessly. And they were helpless to stop him.
"I'll go with you," Jorah said.
"No. Guard the dragons. Rakharo will accompany me."
Daenerys's voice tightened. She couldn't bear the thought of returning and finding her hatchlings gone.
"But I cannot let you go alone."
[I'll go.]
The instant Drogon voiced his intent, Daenerys felt her shoulder dip under his weight—his claws slipping a little as he landed.
[Already getting too big, huh?]
Drogon thought nostalgically.
He almost missed the days he fit on her shoulder perfectly.
"Let Drogon come with me," Daenerys said, straightening.
"…Very well," Jorah conceded.
He stayed behind, ordering the Dothraki to reinforce the courtyard defenses while Daenerys, Drogon, and Rakharo set off for the House of the Undying.
---
Half an hour later…
"So this… is the House of the Undying?"
Daenerys murmured, staring at the towering, chimney-like structure surrounded by a low mud wall.
She stepped across old steps littered with dry leaves and entered the enclosure.
"Where is the door?"
She circled the building once—nothing. No entrance at all.
Restlessness gnawed at her.
Jorah and her other dragons were waiting back at the manse.
She had no desire to waste time here.
Her steps quickened.
Rakharo, confused, hurried to keep up.
Then—
A flicker.
A shift.
Daenerys and Drogon suddenly found themselves standing inside a vast, silent darkness.
Rakharo's voice, shouting frantically from outside, faded into nothing.
Daenerys felt along the wall, fingers brushing a torch.
She struck firestone and lit it.
The chamber was empty—eerily so.
Only several great doors lined the walls.
Holding the torch high, she edged toward one and gently pushed it open.
---
Inside lay a ruined hall.
Thick pillars sagged under their own weight, and a great dome overhead had been shattered. Snow drifted down through the gaping hole.
She stepped forward—
and realized the flakes were not melting.
Not snow.
Ash.
Ahead, a throne forged from countless swords loomed—coated in more ash.
She touched the armrest, brushing the gray dust away.
She longed to sit.
Longed to feel the cold iron beneath her.
But she held herself back.
This was not her Iron Throne.
Not the real one.
Not the one she would claim by fire and blood.
She turned and left.
---
She opened another door.
A freezing wind howled through, carrying swirling snow.
Before her rose a colossal wall of ice, ancient and eternal.
Through the storm, she glimpsed a tiny tent.
She stepped closer—
and warmth enveloped her like a hug from the past.
Inside, Khal Drogo held a golden-haired, blue-eyed infant in his arms, gazing upon the child with a tenderness she had never seen in life.
Daenerys threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around the two figures in the tent.
Tears slid silently down her cheeks as she held them—her lost husband, her lost child.
After one last moment of aching tenderness, she tore herself away and stumbled out into the snow.
With trembling hands she pushed open the next door.
What greeted her was a banquet of corpses.
The hall was filled with severed limbs and mangled bodies.
Chairs lay toppled in chaotic angles, goblets overturned, wine and blood staining the floor in dark streaks.
On one chair slumped a grotesque figure—wolf's head, man's body—its throat slashed, blood bubbling from the wound.
Daenerys recoiled, leaving the gruesome hall behind.
She kept walking, searching desperately for an exit from the accursed place…
---
While Daenerys endured her illusions, Drogon was far from idle.
Through the first door, he saw dozens of enormous dragons battling in a violent storm of wings and flame.
Through the second, he saw Viserion transformed into an ice dragon, cold and lifeless.
Through the third, he watched Rhaegal plummet from the sky, dead.
And then Daenerys opened the fourth door…
Drogon found himself in a lush forest.
Green mountains rose in the distance, springs trickled over stone.
On the grass lay Daenerys—blood dried on her chest, eyes closed in deathly stillness.
Drogon let out a broken rumble, nudging her gently before carrying her toward a small stream.
He dipped his great wings, scooping water and letting it flow across her chest to wash away the blood.
Thrum!
A massive arrow slammed into the earth beside him, vibrating violently.
Drogon roared and launched into the sky—
only for a storm of giant bolts to streak toward him.
He twisted, dodged, but two found their mark, ripping into his flesh.
Ignoring the pain, he forced his wings open and swooped down over the scorpion bolt thrower, bathing it in dragonfire until it exploded into burning debris.
Roaring, he turned toward the next row of engines.
But the moment he loosed another blast of flame, a massive metal net shot from beside the scorpion—
ensnaring him completely.
He thrashed and spat fire, but the steel mesh melted far too slowly.
Before he could break free, more giant bolts pierced his chest and belly.
Dragged down, wings tangled, he crashed to the ground.
The bolts did not stop.
One after another pierced him—
until his body was riddled with holes, torn, broken.
A dragon slain beyond saving.
---
"—Hah! HAH!"
Drogon snapped awake, gasping, chest heaving violently.
He had been killed.
But in the real story, Drogon had carried Daenerys's corpse away from King's Landing and vanished—
he had not died.
So what was this vision?
A future sequel?
Or had his very presence in this world created a new butterfly effect… leading to his own death?
Reborn as a dragon, blessed with the devouring gift, Drogon had imagined a free, powerful life.
Never—not once—had he thought he could be hunted down and butchered like prey.
Someone had killed Daenerys.
Someone had killed him.
Someone wanted them both annihilated.
[Who…? Who is it…?]
Drogon's heart thundered with rage.