Everything had happened too fast—for only now did Daenerys and the rest of the khalasar truly feel the weight of fear.
"Drogo, my sun and stars! Are you alright?!"
"Khal!!"
They could all see he was unharmed, but panic gripped them at the thought of losing their king.
The voices of over two hundred people thundered through the ruined city, drowning out Quaithe's shrill cries as she rolled on the ground in agony, clutching her head. The screeching of the disintegrating shadow creature was also lost beneath the clamor.
Having barely escaped death, Xaro Xhoan Daxos and Pyat Pree finally realized the truth—the man they had dismissed for his lack of a braid was none other than Khal Drogo, once the undisputed king of the Dothraki Sea.
Rumors of Drogo's supposed death had long since spread across the Free Cities, carried by slavers traveling to ports like Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor. Their routes, built along rivers and better supplied, were much faster than Daenerys's slow trek across the Red Waste.
Xaro, ever well-informed, had heard the tales. Now, staring at the massive Dothraki warrior before him, he was certain—this was Drogo. He had never seen another man so towering and strong.
Realization struck like a hammer. Xaro stood frozen, his pig-like body trembling with regret for the way he had treated Daenerys.
Drogo saw his warriors preparing to charge. Their numbers dwarfed the enemy, but he feared the strange powers wielded by the intruders. He raised his voice.
"Hold your blades, my khalasar! I will deal with them myself!"
Turning to Drogon perched on his shoulder, he whispered, "What do you say, my child? Shall we destroy these secrets together?"
It was said that dragons possessed intelligence to rival humans. Of the three hatchlings, Drogon was the most aware—and he now seemed enraged over his father's brush with death.
"Ssskkreeech!"
Smoke hissed from his nostrils and teeth. Glints of flame flashed between them—terrifying.
Dragonfire would not rest until its purpose was fulfilled. Shadows would not survive. The blaze would not fade.
"Dragons are also called demon-dragons," Drogo thought. "Maybe their fire is the bane of magic. Shadowbinders wield shadows—maybe even others'—to carry out their crimes."
The shadow dissolved into mist. The earth where it had stood glowed red, scorched into molten stone. Drogo walked toward Quaithe and the warlock, his expression cold.
Xaro, for now, was beneath his notice. No matter how cunning the fat merchant was, he would not escape Drogo's wrath forever.
Pyat Pree shrank from Drogo and his dragon, visibly terrified. Though he could perform illusions and vanish, he trembled—afraid of the fire-breathing creature.
True power does not flinch or tremble.
Drogo took note. Still wary, he stayed alert for another surprise attack.
What Drogo didn't know was that Pyat Pree was struggling under immense pressure. In this waning age of magic, warlocks needed external tools to summon power.
He longed for an ally—but the only one available, Quaithe, was writhing in unspeakable pain. Her shadow, her second self, was gone.
Knowing camels were poor escape mounts, Pyat Pree realized he couldn't outrun Drogo. Gritting his teeth, he pulled a small bottle from his robe. It held a thick blue liquid. He uncorked it and downed it in one gulp.
His lips darkened—turning from blue to nearly black.
Drogo could have fired his arrow. He could have sent Drogon to end the warlock. But he didn't.
Jorah's earlier warning echoed in his memory, about the warlocks' infamous brew: shade-of-the-evening.
The tale spoke of black-barked trees whose poisonous leaves were steeped and refined into a deep blue drink. Mixed with rare ingredients and incantations, the brew allowed communication with the undying or divine—and gave birth to illusions and sorcery.
True or not, Drogo knew he would soon find out.
Blue mist rose from Pyat Pree. Drogo tensed, ready to call for Drogon.
Then the warlock spoke, and his words shifted the mood.
"The Undying Ones sent the comet to guide the new dragonlord. They sent me to welcome you. If you can ride dragons, we are not enemies. I await you at the House of the Undying in Qarth, where wisdom shall open its gates."
He looked once at Daenerys, once at Drogo—and vanished.
Drogo exhaled. He stroked Drogon's scales.
"Pah. Maybe the Undying lived in that place once. Now it reeks of ghosts. But I'll still go."
With the warlock gone, his gaze turned to Quaithe.
She had lost her shadow. She was broken. He didn't know the pain she was enduring—but he knew it was unimaginable.
Her face was the center of that agony. She had torn off her lacquered red mask. Her flesh crawled with maggots. Rotted skin sloughed off in strips. Beneath it, white bone glinted.
She shrieked, clawing her face. Her cries curdled the blood.
Many women of the khalasar turned away. Some retched. Daenerys trembled violently.
Even the bloodiest warriors felt ill.
"They say those who abuse dark magic pay a heavy price," Drogo thought. "She earned this. No mercy for the worthless."
"Deserved."
Then, at last, he said the word he had taught Drogon—the one he had waited so long to command.
"Dracarys."
With a roar, Drogon unleashed black fire.
Quaithe's screams ceased. Her ashen eyes locked onto Drogo. Her voice, hollow and distant, cursed him:
"All mortals must die... but you, lonely conqueror—I saw you atop a dragon with eyes like sapphire voids and rotting wings. You flew over mountains of corpses and seas of blood… and no one flew beside you. Heh heh heh heh…"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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