The abandoned city, already brimming with eerie, unsettling energy, became even more unnerving after the appearance—and vanishing—of the spectral figure.
Drogo gripped his arakh tightly with both hands, the blade nearly slipping from his grasp due to the tension. Glancing sideways at Irri, who had collapsed to the ground in terror, he steeled his nerves and barked a command without looking back:
"Warriors, take your positions! Stand guard and prepare for battle!"
The warriors quickly formed a protective circle around the frightened old, weak, women, and children. Their almond-shaped eyes scanned every inch of the surroundings—even the sky.
Ser Jorah Mormont, who hadn't joined in the panic, approached Drogo hesitantly and said with uncertainty, "Khal, what we just saw may not have been a spirit... it could've been a warlock."
Drogo turned his head slightly, intrigued. "What makes you say that?"
Jorah scanned the area carefully, then spoke in a low voice:
"Warlocks are sorcerers who have mastered the dark arts of illusion and shifting. These men read forbidden scrolls coated in dust, drink poisonous 'shade-of-the-evening' until their skin turns pale and their lips blue. They borrow power from gods to work their so-called miracles. That grotesque face we saw—if you remember it clearly—I believe it fits the description."
Drogo couldn't forget that face. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered in his life. He nodded in agreement—Jorah's theory made sense.
Seeing that Drogo seemed to be taking his words to heart, Ser Jorah quickly added, "Even though warlocks once held fearsome power and were revered for their wisdom, nowadays they're no better than deluded crones—clinging to the past, deceiving themselves. Real sorcery has long since left them. Compared to the priests of old, they're just hollow shells. So... maybe that thing really was a ghost after all."
It was, in truth, a contradictory statement—but Drogo took it seriously. He had begun to see Jorah in a new light. Unlike his brute warriors, this exiled knight had both knowledge and experience.
Besides, Drogo knew that sorcery existed in this world. There was the infamous "Red Woman," Melisandre, who claimed to serve the Lord of Light, R'hllor. She could summon fire from nothing, even resurrect the dead, and was said to now serve Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone.
But this was no time to debate the supernatural.
He turned to Jorah and said seriously, "Thank you, Ser. But whether we're facing warlocks or spirits, we will face them again. If that creature shows itself once more—cut it down without hesitation."
Jorah gave a respectful nod. "As you say, great Khal."
Still, something about the knight's tone and excessive formality irked Drogo. Was it deliberate? A habit?
As Jorah moved toward Daenerys protectively, like a knight ready to take on any demon for her, Drogo felt a flicker of jealousy. Still, his anger remained focused on the pale warlock.
He was just considering whether to follow Irri's advice and retreat from the ghostly city when the sound of hoofbeats reached them from up ahead.
Everyone turned toward the source of the noise. Soon, they saw three tall camels approaching—two people and the very same eerie figure from before riding them!
Drogo's heart clenched. He moved forward, preparing to leap and cut that monster down once more.
Even if it was useless—this was a Khal's duty.
With their leader charging, the others followed suit, shouting fierce battle cries that echoed through the bone-white ruins of the ancient city.
Seeing the charge, the richly-dressed, rotund bald man in the middle grew panicked and shouted in Valyrian,
"Stop, Dothraki from afar! I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos, one of the Thirteen of Qarth!"
Valyria—though long destroyed—was once a great empire, home to the Targaryen bloodline, located on a peninsula in Essos. Its mysterious doom had reduced it to ruins centuries ago, but its language still endured in the Free Cities.
Daenerys, a true descendant of the Conqueror, was fluent in her ancestral tongue. And thanks to her, Drogo had learned enough Valyrian to understand.
Hearing the name—Xaro Xhoan Daxos—Drogo sneered inwardly. He remembered him from the novel: a cunning liar who sought Daenerys's hand in marriage for his own gain. But the timing of his appearance felt wrong—he was supposed to arrive after they had already taken the city.
"Could we have delayed too long?" Drogo wondered. "Unlikely. In the books, Dany moved even slower through the wasteland."
Still, he raised a hand and halted his warriors.
Scanning the trio coldly, Drogo considered:
"If that's really Xaro Xhoan Daxos, then the man beside him isn't a ghost—but the warlock from the House of the Undying! My true objective!"
Sure enough, the pale, blue-lipped man introduced himself in broken Dothraki,
"I am Pyat Pree, a warlock and seer of the House of the Undying. I came earlier to greet you. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. Please, don't take offense, friends of the dragons."
In the Game of Thrones series, Pyat Pree did indeed possess the ability to create illusions. Now that Drogo had confirmed his identity, he became even more wary—men like this could approach unseen and strike without warning.
While Drogo remained on guard, saying nothing, a third figure stepped forward—a woman wearing a lacquered wooden mask. Her voice was clear and articulate as she spoke the Common Tongue of Westeros:
"I am Quaithe of the Shadow, a shadowbinder from Asshai. We followed the bleeding star in search of dragons."
Shadowbinders were a type of sorcerer who could manipulate shadows and perform mysterious magic—feared for good reason.
Compared to the showy Pyat Pree and the oily Xaro, Drogo found this masked woman the most terrifying of all. He knew little about her—only the name, nothing more.
In truth, Drogo disliked all three. None of them bothered to hide their greed.
They ignored the hostile stares of the Dothraki and kept their eyes fixed only on Drogo and Daenerys. Their intentions were obvious—and matched what the shadowbinder had just declared.
They had come for the dragons.
.
.
.
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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