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As he slept, Drogo felt something warm and wet brushing his face. Startled awake, he looked up—only to find it was Snowball's paw. He relaxed.
Looking around, he realized he had awoken in the midst of a crimson feast steeped in death.
Bodies lay twisted and broken across the floor, slumped over banquet tables piled with food, or sprawled in sticky pools of slowly congealing blood.
Some had arrows in their backs. Others had been dismembered. Still more were headless.
Beneath the high table lay the bloated corpse of a woman, her throat slit from ear to ear. Her face was unrecognizable, but in her hand she clutched a cold stone heart, and fire still burned in her eyes.
Seated on the dais above was a dead man with a wolf's head sewn onto his shoulders like a grisly crown. He wore a golden circlet and held a leg of lamb like a king's scepter.
The wolf's eyes—red as twin blood moons—locked onto Drogo, silent and full of sorrow, as if condemning him for witnessing this nightmare.
The meanings of the earlier visions had been unclear.
But this one, Drogo understood immediately. It was a foretelling of the Red Wedding, a massacre that would soon upend the balance of power in Westeros.
In the near future, Robb Stark, eldest son of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell, would be lured to a wedding feast by House Frey under the pretense of alliance—only to be treacherously butchered.
Robb Stark was brave and wise, honorable like his father, steadfast and just. Drogo admired him.
For a brief moment, Drogo considered writing a warning and sending it by raven to the North—perhaps he could alter the fate of the King in the North.
But he quickly abandoned the thought. Robb was too capable, too commanding. The North had rallied under him and won battle after battle. Drogo didn't want such a man to survive and become his rival.
There was no point in lingering. Spotting a door to the far right, he urged Drogon and Snowball forward.
Beyond the door stretched a long corridor. Doors lined the left side endlessly; only torches lit the right.
Eventually, a massive door appeared—made of polished obsidian, smooth as glass and heavy with presence. It stood out from all the others: darker, thicker, grander.
As man and beasts approached, the door opened on its own.
Inside looked like a sorcerer's altar, red candles flickering around the chamber.
There stood a woman with her back to him, veiled in sheer red silks and a lacquered crimson mask. Beside her stood a tall, gaunt man in Dothraki garb—long braid, long beard, skeletal and hollow-eyed.
Both were staring at the enormous skeleton of a dragon, one of its leg bones missing.
The woman seemed familiar. Could it be… Quaithe?
Then the skeletal man spoke, his voice dry and rasping:
"The old roots have given all. The withered leaves will bloom anew."
Driven by curiosity, Drogo stepped forward to see the woman's face more clearly.
But before he could move, the obsidian door slammed shut behind him.
He continued walking.
For more than an hour, they traveled in silence—until the corridor ended at a steep staircase leading down into utter darkness.
One by one, the torches behind them went out. Only the glow of Drogon and Snowball's eyes offered the faintest light.
And then—slow, heavy footsteps echoed behind them, dragging across the carpet of faded corpse-flowers.
Something was coming.
He could not go back. The only way forward was down.
But Pyat Pree had warned him: in the House of the Undying, you must always climb up. Never descend.
Fear crept into Drogo's chest.
"Hsss…"
The footsteps grew louder. Drogon stretched his serpentine neck, mouth open in a silent roar. Smoke rose from his jaws—then fire.
By dragonlight, Drogo saw it—and nearly screamed.
Pyat Pree.
Or what was left of him.
His head was split in two, but he floated like a ghost, his feet never touching the ground. The dragging footsteps came from a rotting corpse, possessed by his will.
The corpse reached toward Drogo. Pyat's voice rang out, high-pitched and sharp as rats gnawing bone:
"The Undying do not wait. Mortal lives are brief as moths to flame. Come to me—to me—to me…"
The voice was magnetic, pulling at Drogo's soul.
Panicked, he abandoned the idea of choosing only the right-hand doors. He dove through the leftmost one instead.
His beasts rushed in behind him.
Another room. Four doors.
He took the right one.
Then again—right. Again—right.
At last, there were no more doors. Only a spiral staircase leading upward.
From the outside, the House of the Undying had no towers. This had to be sorcery. An illusion.
Still, he climbed.
At the top, he found a pair of great wooden doors, slightly ajar.
They were carved of ebony and weirwood—black and white swirling together into hypnotic spirals, beautiful and terrifying all at once.
As he gazed upon the pattern, dizziness struck. For a moment, it felt like his soul might leave his body.
And then it hit him: this was it. The entire House of the Undying had been feeding on his soul.
He had no more choices left.
With only a moment's hesitation, Drogo pushed open the doors.
Inside was a grand hall.
Men and women filled it, all of them dazzling—young, radiant, impossibly beautiful.
Some wore velvet robes of ruby and gold. Others were dressed in luxurious furs, or armor inlaid with gems. Not a musician in sight—yet the air rang with haunting, beautiful music.
Even Drogo, wary and scarred, felt his tension slipping away.
The crowd rose as one, smiling warmly:
"Welcome, welcome. Join the Eternal Feast. We are the Undying of Qarth."
One woman, clad in a rose-and-silver mesh gown—baring one breast in true Qartheen fashion—stepped forward and smiled:
"We know all things. We can answer every mystery."
A warrior in brilliant emerald armor pointed at Drogo's arakh:
"I can teach you how to wield magical weapons. Come. You've passed all the tests. Feast with us, and you'll have your answers."
A man in a mage's robe added:
"We've known for a thousand years that the heir of the true dragon would come. The comet was our sign to you."
Drogo's voice was calm, deep:
"I'm not the heir of the true dragon. But I will become the Lord of Dragons."
The Undying all replied in eerie unison, their voices echoing like whispers in a cave:
"Blood and fire… blood and fire…"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Fire and Blood! 📢
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