Chapter 10 — A Treasure Within
"Drogon, what's wrong? Drogon!"
The moment they stepped out of the chamber, Daenerys sensed something terribly off.
A violent, feral aura pulsed from Drogon's body—wild and murderous enough to freeze her breath.
Terrified, she slapped desperately at his scales.
"Mm?"
Drogon turned his head toward her.
Two blood-red, predatory eyes locked onto her, and Daenerys instinctively recoiled.
He had never looked at her this way—not once.
Only Rhaegal and Viserion ever showed this kind of hostility when fighting over food.
"Drogon… what happened to you?"
Her voice trembled.
Seeing her fear, Drogon forced himself to pull back his oppressive aura and tore his gaze away, surveying their surroundings instead.
The chamber doors were all open now. Ahead, a narrow staircase spiraled upward.
Once his mood steadied, Daenerys lifted her torch and climbed.
---
At the top of the stairs lay a hall—vast, empty, and silent.
In the center stood a stone table, gray and ancient.
Upon it rested a massive rotting heart, still twitching as though alive.
Its swollen veins—dark blue and purple—pulsed rhythmically, pumping blood to nowhere.
Through that grotesque organ, Drogon seemed to glimpse countless faces—men, women, crones, children—blank-eyed and hollow.
Daenerys, however, saw far more.
Whispers curled into her ears—soft, eerie murmurs.
Illusions surged again, blurring the line between real and unreal; shadows crawled beneath her skin.
Her expression shifted wildly—fear, confusion, horror—leaving Drogon deeply alarmed.
Unlike earlier, he felt no pull toward illusion. He had no idea what she was seeing.
Then she suddenly clawed at her own body, as if worms were crawling through her flesh.
This world held too many strange, deadly magics. Drogon could not risk waiting.
He darted to the heart and unleashed a torrent of black-red dragonfire.
The flames struck, and instantly—
Screams erupted from the heart.
Men's shrieks, women's wails, children's cries—all echoing from within that pulsing monstrosity.
It burned far slower than human flesh—consuming it required far more flame.
But inch by inch, the grotesque organ turned to ash.
And then Drogon noticed something.
From the burning heart drifted faint white motes, shimmering like tiny stars.
At first he thought his eyes deceived him.
He blinked—no, the motes were real.
And they were drifting toward him.
What in the—?
He tried to retreat, but the motes surged forward with sudden speed—
directly into him.
[Shit.]
He couldn't help the curse that echoed through his mind.
Nothing good comes out of a disgusting heart like that—right?
But the moment the motes sank into his body…
A wave of pure, blissful warmth flooded him.
Like sinking into a perfect hot spring.
His hide thickened.
His bones strengthened.
His inner magic—whatever passed for a dragon's power—swelled to two or three times its former strength.
So that was it.
The heart had contained a reservoir of pure, refined energy—along with something else he couldn't fully understand.
Something potent.
Something ancient.
Something very, very good.
Savoring the changes in his body, Drogon noticed something strange—
in the depths of his mind, a small white sphere of light, no bigger than a bean, quietly hovered.
What now?
It must have been formed from those motes…
He couldn't touch it, couldn't probe it, but since his body had only strengthened, he felt little worry.
Most likely, it wasn't harmful.
---
When the heart finally burned to ash, Daenerys snapped back to clarity.
One glance at the pile of gray dust and cold fear crawled up her spine.
If Drogon hadn't intervened, she doubted she would have ever awakened.
She wanted nothing more than to leave immediately.
Snatching up the torch, she rushed down the spiral stair.
The doors they had opened earlier had all vanished—
only a wall of white light shimmered at the end of the hall.
As she reached it—
Pyat Pree burst from the glow, a dagger in hand, charging at her with jerky, puppet-like steps.
"You—what have you done to the Undying!? I'll kill you!"
His stiff movements were nothing like the swift grace he'd displayed before.
He never even reached her.
A blast of Drogon's black-red flames engulfed him.
Pyat Pree collapsed mid-scream, his burning flesh releasing not the scent of charred meat, but a sickening, fetid stench.
Daenerys didn't spare him another glance.
Leaping over the fallen warlock, she sprinted through the gate.
Outside, Rakharo had been frantically searching.
The moment he saw Daenerys and Drogon emerge, he ran to them.
"Go! We need to return at once."
Drogon had slain a member of the Thirteen—and destroyed the Undying themselves.
Daenerys had no idea how the Pureborn or the remaining Thirteen would retaliate.
She needed to get her people out now.
---
Half an hour later, she reunited with Jorah and the others.
Only after confirming everyone was safe did their shoulders finally ease.
"Pack everything. We're leaving at once." Daenerys ordered.
Jorah frowned. "Where will we go?"
"First... Xaro."
His eyes widened.
But he nodded, barking commands to the Dothraki.
---
Ten minutes later, darkness settled over Qarth.
Daenerys split her people into two groups—
the women and children escorted toward the harbor under guard,
while she led Drogon, the other two dragons, Jorah, and twenty warriors straight toward Xaro Xhoan Daxos's mansion.
With Drogon clearing the way, dragonfire turning defenses to molten ruin, they breached the estate in moments.
Most of Xaro's guards threw down their weapons the instant they saw the dragons.
The few who resisted were cut down.
Xaro himself was dragged out alive—
no longer the elegant, silver-tongued merchant prince, but a quivering man in nightclothes begging for breath.
"Daenerys, spare me! I'll give you every ship I own!"
"Blood of my blood," Daenerys said coldly.
Rakharo stepped forward and drove his dagger deep into Xaro's chest.
The merchant prince sagged to the floor, eyes full of disbelief.
"Take every piece of gold, every jewel, and every slave!" Jorah shouted.
The Dothraki roared in delight—this was what they excelled at, and loved most.
But Xaro's trove was overwhelming—gold vessels, silver plates, bronze artifacts.
Time was short; many treasures too large to carry had to be abandoned, though the Dothraki pried out every gemstone they could reach before fleeing.
By the time the looting finished, a messenger arrived from the Pureborn of Qarth:
Leave Qarth at once.
You are no longer welcome.
The Qartheen feared that the Tourmaline Brotherhood would soon receive approval to slaughter Daenerys's group.
If Pyat Pree and Xaro hadn't acted first and failed so spectacularly, Daenerys would already have been trapped and killed.
Qarth was a city built on commerce and reputation—
and Xaro and Pyat Pree had violated every rule of hospitality and exchange.
If the Pureborn themselves attacked Daenerys afterward, the city's credibility would collapse.
But the real reason was simpler:
Three dragons.
The destruction they'd just wrought had terrified every ruler in Qarth.
As Jorah explained all this to Daenerys, excitement sparked in her eyes.
Her dragons… were no longer helpless hatchlings.
They had become a weapon—a real one.
Even so, she knew Qarth's patience would not last.
They had to leave.
Now.
Gathering her people, driving the captured slaves ahead, Daenerys Stormborn led them all toward the harbor under the looming glow of dragonfire.
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