A Dothraki warrior suddenly clutched his throat, blood slowly trickling through his fingers. Pyat Pree stood behind him, a dagger in his hand.
*Thwack!* Rakharo, standing not far away, plunged a dagger into Pyat Pree's back. Yet Pyat Pree showed no reaction. Rakharo withdrew the blade, and a pile of gray robes slumped to the ground. Only then did the others realize Pyat Pree remained standing exactly where he was.
Drogon unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, but it only burned through the warrior's clothes.
"Your dragon has quite the temper. Aren't you going yet?" Pyat Pree's loathsome voice echoed from beneath the charred courtyard gate.
After a stunned glance at the warrior with the slit throat, then at Pyat Pree and Jorah, Daenerys spoke with difficulty. "Your methods are truly baffling. I will immediately proceed to the House of the Undying to meet the Undying."
"Welcome!" With that, Pyat Pree didn't linger. He took a few strides through the gate and vanished.
Everyone, including Drogon, stared in shock in the direction Pyat Pree had disappeared.
*A shapeshift or teleportation?* Drogon had never imagined the warlock's methods could be so bizarre and unpredictable.
He knew of the Old Gods, the New Gods, the Lord of Light, the Many-Faced God...
And countless other obscure, bizarre methods. The one that left the deepest impression on him was Melisandre, the red-robed woman who served the Lord of Light. She gave birth to shadow children who assassinated Renly, the king's brother, and used leech spells to curse three false kings and resurrect Jon.
There was also that foolhardy man who had been resurrected seven times by the Lord of Light, the Night's Watch warg, the Green Prophet Bran... and now this male sorcerer.
Thinking of them, Drogon suddenly felt that being a future great dragon wasn't as safe as he'd imagined. If the male sorcerer had attacked him with that dagger, could he have handled it?
"Khaleesi, are you truly going? I've heard very few who enter the House of the Undying ever return," Jorah's question interrupted Drogon's thoughts.
"I can't just watch you all get slaughtered," Daenerys said helplessly.
Although the warrior had only been grazed earlier, everyone knew Pyat Pree could slit a throat with a single stroke, and they were powerless to stop him.
"I'll go with you," Jorah said.
"No! You stay and guard Little Dragon. Rakharo can accompany me." Daenerys was afraid she might never see Little Dragon again if she didn't return.
"But I really can't leave you alone," Jorah insisted.
*I'll go.* Drogon thought. With a sudden weight on her shoulder, Drogon landed, his black claws nearly slipping.
*You've grown so big!* Drogon felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when he first stood on the Dragon Mother's shoulder. Perhaps these were the growing pains of maturity.
"Let Drogon come with me!" Daenerys straightened her back.
"That's the only way," Jorah conceded. He stayed behind to command the Dothraki in quickly reinforcing the courtyard. Daenerys, Drogon, and Rakharo headed toward the House of the Undying.
After more than half an hour...
"Is this the House of the Undying?" Daenerys murmured, gazing at the towering, chimney-like structure enclosed by low earthen walls.
Treading on worn steps and dry, yellow leaves, she entered the walled area.
"Where's the door?" She circled the House of the Undying but found no entrance. A knot of anxiety tightened in her chest. The other two dragons and Jorah were waiting for her back at the manor; she couldn't afford to waste any more time here.
As Daenerys hurried onward, Rakharo, following behind, couldn't help but quicken his pace.
Suddenly, Daenerys and Drogon, who hadn't stopped walking, found themselves in the pitch-black, silent House of the Undying. The frantic shouts of Rakharo outside were completely cut off.
In the darkness, Daenerys fumbled for a torch and lit it with a flint. Only then did she realize the hall was nearly empty, save for several large, barred doors set into the walls.
Holding the torch aloft, she slowly advanced until a door creaked open. Inside lay a ruined great hall, its massive pillars tilted at odd angles and the dome cracked open, allowing snowflakes to cascade down in a steady stream.
As she stepped further in, she noticed the flakes weren't melting. Closer inspection revealed they were not snow at all, but ashes.
Moving deeper into the hall, she found a throne forged from sharp longswords, its surface completely covered in ashes. She brushed the ashes off the armrest, her fingers itching to touch it, but she forced herself to resist.
She knew this was the Iron Throne she had dreamed of, but she would claim the real one, not this hollow, illusory imitation.
With resolute determination, she turned and left, then pushed open another door. Inside, a biting wind howled, and snow swirled in a blizzard. A towering Great Wall of ice stood between heaven and earth, ancient and enduring.
Through the blizzard, she seemed to see a small tent standing against the storm. As she moved through the snow, the tent's interior was as warm as spring. Khal Drogo, his face softened with a tenderness she had never seen before, cradled a golden-haired, blue-eyed infant.
Daenerys threw herself forward, embracing them both tightly, silent tears streaming down her face. After a tender moment, she resolutely left the tent.
With tear-filled eyes, she pushed open another door to witness a feast of corpses. The hall was strewn with severed limbs and broken bodies, chairs overturned in disarray, and overturned wine cups scattered across tables, their contents mixing with blood on the floor.
On one chair sat a creature with a wolf's head and a man's body, its throat slashed, blood gushing from the wound.
Retreating from the hall, she continued searching for the exit to the great hall...
While Daenerys experienced these visions, Drogon was not idle. Through the first door, he saw dozens of dragons battling wildly in the sky. The second door revealed Viserion transforming into an ice dragon. The third door showed Rhaegal's fall.
Now, Daenerys pushed open the fourth door...
Drogon found himself in the heart of the Greenwoods, surrounded by verdant mountains and the gentle murmur of a spring. On the grass lay the Dragon Mother, her chest stained with dried blood, her eyes tightly shut.
Drogon gently bit her, then carefully laid her beside the stream. With his massive wings, he scooped up the spring water and slowly poured it over her chest, washing away the dried blood.
*Whizz!*
A colossal arrow suddenly embedded itself in the grassy bank, its shaft humming with vibration. Drogon roared in fury and soared into the sky. But as he ascended, a volley of giant arrows shattered the air around him. He dodged left and right, yet two of the massive shafts pierced his body.
Ignoring his wounds, he flapped his wings fiercely and swooped down upon a ballista. Fire erupted from his throat, engulfing the weapon in flames. Roaring, he turned toward the next row of ballistas.
But just as he unleashed another gout of dragonfire, a massive net shot out from beside the ballista, nearly enveloping him. Struggling, he continued to spew flames, but two more giant arrows struck his chest and abdomen.
The steel-woven net melted agonizingly slowly under the dragonfire. Before he could break free, he was dragged to the ground. The arrows continued to rain down, piercing him through and through until he lay dead, beyond saving.
*Huff... huff...* Drogon jolted awake, gasping for breath. He had been killed...
In the original ending, Drogon carried the Dragon Mother's body away from King's Landing and disappeared without a trace, never being killed. So what was that illusion earlier?
A sequel? Or did his arrival create a butterfly effect that led to his own death?
Reborn as a dragon with a devouring talent, Drogon had once thought he would live a carefree and unrestrained life. He never imagined he would one day be shot down. He would never allow this. They had killed the Dragon Mother and now they wanted to kill him too. Who was trying to hunt him down to the very last?
*Who... who could it be...?* Drogon roared inwardly, his fury echoing through his mind.