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Daenerys was a trueborn princess. Though now a married woman, her heart still brimmed with rosy dreams. In her mind, the palace of the Undying Ones must surely be the most resplendent structure in the Glorious City.
Seated beside her in the palanquin, Drogo smiled and cautioned her, "The higher your hopes, the greater the disappointment. The House of the Undying is not as grand as you imagine."
In public, Daenerys carried herself with queenly dignity, but in front of her husband, she often reverted to a childlike state. She pouted, her lips forming a sulky moue, and muttered, "You just don't want me to pass through the gates of wisdom and grasp the truth."
Drogo was the only man in the world blessed to see the Mother of Dragons act coy—and so he had to care for her in his own way. With a knowing look, he replied, "Some truths are best left unknown. They might make you tremble before what lies ahead."
Sensitive as ever, Daenerys shook her head, the scent of perfumed oils wafting from her silver hair. In a tone of grievance, she repeated, "You just don't want me to pass through the gates of wisdom."
The Undying had invited the one they called the Master of the Dread Dragon, not the trueborn blood of Valyria. Drogo believed that an extra companion could only increase the risk of calamity.
The warlocks' abode was built upon bones and lies, and Drogo—driven by his own motives—was determined not to let her enter alongside him.
Her destiny had already changed drastically with his rebirth. Some of the illusions conjured by the House of the Undying might still beguile her. Better she never laid eyes upon them.
In truth, what Drogo feared most was Daenerys rising above him. Whether consciously or not, he had begun to bend her once-glorious arc in A Song of Ice and Fire to another shape.
Suddenly, the shrill whinnies of frightened steeds and the uneasy cries of dragons pierced the silence within the luxurious palanquin. Alarmed, Drogo and Daenerys flung aside the curtain and leapt out.
Before them loomed a crumbling, ancient ruin.
A Bloodrider who had scouted ahead reported, "Khal, Khaleesi—that is the House of the Undying."
Seeing the dragons snarling toward the darkened ruin, Drogo and Daenerys shifted their wary gazes toward the ominous structure.
Daenerys's imagined palace of splendor shattered in an instant. Her face was a mask of disbelief.
Drogo too was taken aback. The place was even more decayed and sinister than what the books had described.
The low, sprawling hall had no towers and no windows—only a great stone mass like a serpent, coiled and half-swallowed by the cursed forest.
The trees were black-barked, their deep blue leaves the color of a warlock's lips. The Qartheen called them nightshade trees, and their leaves were distilled into the magical drink known as shade of the evening.
No other buildings stood nearby, leaving the House isolated, like a hunter's lodge nestled deep in the wild. The black-tiled roof had long since fallen into disrepair, tiles missing, mortar crumbling into powder. Dust blanketed the corners like ash on an anthill.
Moss crept across the tiles, nourished by the eternal shadows cast by towering trees overhead.
Even by day, the place would inspire dread. Now, in the dead of night, only the light of blazing torches kept the darkness at bay.
Ambition makes women fickle. Seeing this ruin—so fearsome that even dragons were uneasy—Daenerys finally reacted as a gentle, frightened maiden might.
"They say the warlocks draw power from dust and shadow. Even the name of this place is a lie. 'Undying Ones'? There's no life here—only darkness fit for demons. My sun and stars, they can offer you nothing but terror and emptiness. Let us flee before these spirits awaken!"
Aggo reined in his skittish steed and agreed, "Yes, blood of my blood. Many have entered the House of Dust—few have ever returned. Surely it's filled with bones. Let's not tarry!"
But Drogo knew more than they did about its dark secrets.
His eyes shone with grim resolve. "This is a place I must enter. It is my fated path."
His three Bloodriders, seeing the fire in his gaze, beat their chests and cried as one, "Blood of our blood! We vow to live and die with you! Let us follow you into the dark!"
But Drogo raised a hand, denying their loyalty. "The Undying summoned me alone. If you come with me, disaster may follow."
Just then, Pyat Pree emerged from the shadows, using warlock sorcery to shrink space. In a blink, he stood before them, grinning grotesquely. "Khal Drogo must go in alone. Only he is worthy to witness the glory of the Undying!"
"Come, honored Khal Drogo. Let me guide your path."
He tucked his gnarled, talon-like hands into his sleeves and turned without waiting, leading the way.
Drogo leaned close to Daenerys and whispered, "If you see smoke rise from the House, command Rhaegal and Viserion to burn the nightshade trees and the House itself."
Her husband was a man of firm will. She could not stop him. But her voice trembled with dread. "Drogo... if you're still inside when they breathe fire, then—"
She could not finish. Drogo gave her a look of calm reassurance. "Don't forget—I am the Unburnt."
At his words, Daenerys fell silent, her expression a bittersweet blend of hope and fear. But Drogo was already looking elsewhere.
He turned to his Bloodriders. "Once I enter, have the khalasar surround the House. Light bonfires until the darkness is driven away. Smoke out every warlock—let none escape. If you cannot capture them, kill them. Burn them to ash."
Then he took the great bone bow that Missandei handed him and bellowed, "Drogon! Snowball! With me!"
The black dragon swooped down and landed before its mother, molten eyes blinking slowly, as if seeking her leave.
Daenerys, unafraid of the heat, caressed its steaming head. "Go, my child. Protect your father."
"Hissss."
Drogon hissed twice, then dropped to all fours and followed Snowball, tail sweeping behind.
As the warmth surged behind him, Drogo steeled himself. This time, I will learn how to tame dragons. I will be the one they choose.
He followed the warlock through the endless nightshade grove. The path grew darker, longer—enchanted and unnatural.
Though the road led to the main gate, Pyat Pree turned toward a side entrance.
It was a demonic maw set into a wall shaped like a human face. A palm-sized homunculus waited there—face shriveled, nose grotesquely long, uglier than any beast.
He wore the same violet-and-blue robes as Pyat Pree and held a silver tray with a long crystal cup filled with thick blue liquid.
Drogo knew it at once: shade of the evening.
The warlock warned him, "Khal Drogo, the front door is a one-way path. Inside, you will find four doors in each chamber. Besides the one you entered, always choose the first door on the right. Always go upward. Never descend. Never choose any door except the first on the right."
He paused.
Drogo recognized the words—they matched the instructions from the lore. Growing impatient, he barked, "Ugly bastard—just spit it out already!"
Feigning patience, Pyat Pree forced a smile. "Khal, listen well. The House was not built for mortals. If you value your soul, heed my words. Drink this—it will sharpen your senses and allow you to see truth and wisdom."
Drogo scoffed. "If the Undying summoned me, I must be no ordinary man. And thanks to you, I've already tasted your sacred brew."
He lifted his foot and stomped down with force. The homunculus didn't even scream—he was crushed to paste, along with the crystal cup.
Then Drogo said coldly, "I am Khal Drogo. I walk tall. Vermin like that exist to be crushed. You got a problem with that?"
Pyat Pree's lip twitched, but he forced a smile. "Of course not. The Chosen of the Undying should carry such might."
Sensing the warlock was bound by sorcery, Drogo pressed on. "The Undying will not wait forever. Speak your last words."
Trembling with rage, Pyat Pree gave a slavish grin. "Very well. You will see many things—some lovely, some horrifying, some strange, some dreadful. These may be memories of the past… glimpses of the future… or things that may never come to pass. The figures may speak to you. You may respond—or ignore them. That is your choice. But until you reach the audience chamber—enter no room."
Drogo had heard enough. "You finished?"
"Finished," the warlock growled.
"Then die."
With a roar, Drogo raised his Valyrian steel blade and brought it crashing down upon the warlock's gleaming bald head.
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