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Countless stone hands and the bleeding eyes of the great stone dragon in the sky all turned to Drogo.
If he were surrounded by those grotesque things, the consequences would be dire. Fortunately, just off to his right stood a large door made of ebony wood, etched with strange patterns.
Drogo rushed forward, pushing and kicking Snowball and Drogon along with him, and threw open the door.
Bang!
As soon as man and beasts passed through, the door slammed shut on its own.
The Khal took in the scene before him—and immediately felt as though he had crossed the boundaries of time itself. That ebony door… it had to be a gate through space and time.
The world had changed entirely. Before him stretched a dense forest of towering trees. Their bark was pale as bone, and their leaves deep red—like a thousand blood-soaked hands.
Every trunk bore a carved human face. The eye sockets were sunken, darkened with dried red sap, exuding an eerie sense of scrutiny and warning.
Some faces wept fresh crimson, as if the trees themselves were bleeding.
Recognizing the features, Drogo quickly realized what they were: weirwoods—what the people of the North called heart trees, sacred to those who worshipped the Old Gods of the Forest.
To the faithful, heart trees were holy. They prayed before them, swore oaths, sealed marriages, believing the Old Gods would bear witness and bless them.
And it was said that no lie could be told before a heart tree.
Though he had never met his mother, she had left him a weirwood arrow. He was certain he hadn't misjudged these trees.
As someone who had crossed into this world from another, he understood that the weeping faces were not natural. According to legend, they had been carved in the Dawn Age, before the First Men crossed the narrow sea—created by the Children of the Forest, and imbued with powerful runes.
The Children, wielding magic, could see through the eyes of those faces, watching all within their sight. Wargs could connect with them as well, to gain similar vision.
Drogo, who possessed the potential of a greenseer, had once connected with his mother's weirwood arrow. Through the face carved into it, he had discovered the whereabouts of the traitor Jhaqo.
A true greenseer could use the weirwood network to witness both past and present in all places where the trees lived—because weirwoods could survive for thousands of years.
Wargs could usually connect only with the living. Drogo believed that his ability to connect with a dead object—his mother's arrow—was only possible because it had been carved and enchanted by a Child of the Forest.
Following the lore of A Song of Ice and Fire, and the guidance of Pyat Pree, Drogo knew that within the House of the Undying, the things one saw might be from the past… or the future… or might never come to pass at all.
So he believed that this vast weirwood forest—something that should only exist north of the Wall in Westeros—might show him visions of either.
Calming his heart, Drogo wandered aimlessly through the forest, with Drogon and Snowball at his side.
But as time passed, he noticed something unsettling: there was only weirwood. Nothing but weirwood. The forest seemed endless.
Hours passed. His frustration grew. Whatever insights he had hoped for were gone, forgotten. Everything was the same.
The woods were silent. He saw no sign of any doorway.
A creeping despair settled in.
"Am I going to die here," he muttered, "trapped in this illusion?"
And then—he heard a voice.
A human voice, distant and airy:
"Come… come…"
Drogo straightened. He followed the voice.
There, outlined in a faint mist, stood a tall, cloaked figure. Clearly a woman. She was turned away, standing before a weirwood tree, carving a face into the trunk.
Legend said the Children of the Forest were small and slight—but this figure was tall. Drogo thought she might be a kindred spirit.
She was wrapped head to toe in a black fox-fur cloak, her hood drawn up. He could only see her hands—pale as the moon.
Even if it was a hallucination, he wasn't going to waste this chance.
As he drew closer, the woman slowly turned.
She was heavily pregnant, her face veiled in black. But her eyes glowed like twin sapphires.
Then she spoke—her voice ethereal and melodic, like a nightingale echoing through the woods:
"All mortals must serve. Only ice and fire are exempt."
The moment the words left her lips, her swollen belly exploded open, revealing a swirling black vortex.
From the abyss emerged a crimson dragon and a withered, pale-skinned humanoid creature, with glowing, icy-blue eyes.
The moment they touched the ground, both began to grow—one baring its fangs, the other grinning wide and wicked.
They leapt toward Drogo.
"Hahaha!"
The woman threw her head back and laughed—shrill, echoing, like a banshee weeping.
Then came the strangest part: every face carved into every weirwood came alive—and laughed with her, in perfect unison.
The grotesque beings were too fast. Drogo knew he couldn't escape.
Steeling himself, he raised his Valyrian steel arakh, determined to slay them—or be devoured.
FWHOOOSH!
Drogon the black dragon took flight, wings sweeping, soaring toward the much larger red dragon.
Blocked mid-charge, the red dragon turned its fury on Drogon.
Meanwhile, the pale creature lunged at Drogo, jaws gaping, ready to tear him apart.
But Drogo was ready. At the last second, he twisted aside, and as they passed, he struck.
CRACK!
The creature shattered like glass—reduced to dust.
So easily destroyed. Based on its features, Drogo looked to his blade and muttered:
"Valyrian steel… That thing must've been a White Walker."
His duel had ended swiftly—and Drogon the dragon fared no worse. The crimson beast, though terrifying, turned to nothing the instant it touched Drogon's fire.
With both enemies gone, Drogo turned to face the woman—the true orchestrator of this nightmare.
Strangely, though she was clearly his enemy, he felt no hatred for her. No desire to strike her down.
The woman stopped laughing.
She pointed one hand at her belly, and with the other, she beckoned to him:
"Come… come…"
Her voice carried strange magic. Unwittingly, Drogo began to walk forward.
Before he could reach her, all three—Drogo, Drogon, and Snowball—were pulled into the swirling vortex of her womb.
Astonishingly, it swallowed them all.
But Drogo didn't panic. It's a vision, he reminded himself. In dreams, nothing needs to make sense.
Inside the vortex, he felt no fear. Only warmth. Peace.
Wrapped in that warmth, his whole body relaxed.
His eyelids grew heavier and heavier…
…until they finally closed.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Fire and Blood! 📢
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