Was this an illusion?
Based on what Drogo had learned, the Water of Shadow was supposedly a kind of hallucinogenic poison.
But the sensation was far too vivid. Illusion or not, the decaying heart was truly siphoning his life force!
In less than ten heartbeats, Drogo's entire arm had visibly aged. There was no time to hesitate—he raised the arakh in his right hand and swung it down at the heart!
Just then, Pyat Pree's anxious voice called out, "Khal, if you slash that heart, your left hand—and all the life force it took—will be lost forever!"
The warlock halted his incantation, and the drain on Drogo's life force ceased. Even the blue mist began to disperse. But when Drogo tried to pull away, his hand and the heart remained fused—utterly inseparable.
If he didn't rely on the warlocks, there was only one way to detach his hand from the heart: cut it off at the wrist.
But unless absolutely necessary, Khal Drogo would never give up his hand!
And if anything was getting chopped off, it would be Pyat Pree—or the disgusting thing stuck to his hand.
This whole thing was clearly a trap set by that damned warlock. Drogo pulled back the arakh and roared, "Cursed sorcerer, what in the seven hells do you want!?"
If they delayed any longer, the Khal would turn into a desiccated corpse—and the warlock's plan would fall apart. So Pyat Pree hurriedly revealed the truth.
"I serve the Undying Ones. It's not about what I want—it's what they want. That rotting heart fused to your hand is the source of their vitality. The Undying are eternal, but to restore their youth, they need to absorb an immense amount of life force—until the decay gives way to fresh vitality!"
Drogo was certain that even if the heart drained every last drop of life from him, its rotten appearance wouldn't change one bit.
Now he understood the warlock's real aim. "You want me to slaughter enough people to rejuvenate this heart—by massacring the people of Qarth, is that it?"
The warlock replied with glee, "It's said Khal Drogo of the Great Grass Sea is brave but dim-witted. But seeing is believing. You're one of the few I'd call clever. Yes, all you need to do is kill. Become a demon—slaughter everyone in Qarth!"
Glaring coldly at the warlock now exposed by the thinning mist, Drogo sneered, "Fine. As your masters wish. I've always been a demon—there's no need for me to become one. But I never give without taking something in return."
Pyat Pree understood his meaning at once. "Once the heart of the Undying has shed its decay and regained its youth, come to the House of the Undying. I believe the rejuvenated Undying will be very eager to fulfill your request."
If the warlock dared double-cross him, Drogo would gladly forfeit his left hand to cleave him in two. But even without the spell being cast, the heart still clung to him. Clearly, it was the Undying Ones—dwelling in the shadows and dust—who truly controlled it.
And if they'd come to him seeking cooperation, then Drogo could make a solid guess: "I suppose you've already wiped out Qarth's ruling elite?"
The warlock answered slyly, "You'll know the moment you set foot in the Palace of a Thousand Thrones."
Glug glug.
Pyat Pree pulled out another vial of Water of Shadow and drank it down. His magic flared again, and he vanished into the distance as a shimmering projection—but his voice lingered briefly.
"Khal, remember: the moment I begin chanting again, the Undying Heart will resume draining your life. And when your dragonsteel blade is soaked in blood, I'll chant faster and faster. You'd better fight like hell—because if you don't, you'll be the first to die! Hahaha!"
For the first time, Drogo was being used—bound by chains he couldn't break. He gritted his teeth in fury.
But what choice did he have?
All he could do was follow the warlock's instructions—attack Qarth, and become the cold-blooded killer he once was.
Snowball suddenly leapt up, jaws wide, trying to bite off the heart. Drogo quickly yanked it away—he wasn't about to accept help like that.
Half an hour later, Drogo returned to camp. Dawn was breaking.
There was no longer any reason to wait for the already-dead Qartheen elites to offer up some meaningless bargaining chip.
With the grotesque, throbbing heart still fused to his hand, Drogo ignored the horrified stares around him. Mounting his horse, he shouted:
"Golden Company, block off the east, west, and south waterways! Unsullied and khalasar, with me—we attack the north gate!"
Qarth was flanked by water on three sides, but the Golden Company—once the city's greatest hope—had lost over half its men and now turned their blades on the locals instead. The Qartheen were filled with fury and despair.
Flaming stones and barrels of pitch arced over the city from the sea. The Qartheen, who had long relied on mercenaries, could do little but brace for impact and hope the gates held.
Still, though they lacked their highborn commanders, they did mount some defense.
From the twin round towers flanking each gate, guards hurled down spears, rocks, and arrows. When the Golden-armored ships neared the main gate, scalding oil rained down from the battlements.
Trying to grapple up the tall walls with crossbow-launched hooks was absurd—the crossbows simply lacked the power. As for breaking through the massive bronze gates with battering rams? They could only hope the bolts holding them together were loose enough.
Drogo had foreseen all this. That's why the Golden Company was ordered to encircle the other three sides—to feint an attack, create pressure, and keep the defenders distracted.
The true assault would be at the north gate—adjacent to the Red Waste.
Qarth's commanders moved their troops wherever Drogo was. If not for the city's natural defenses, their resistance would have been laughably futile.
With siege ladders, trebuchets, grappling hooks and more, the attackers finally scaled the walls—first one, then another, then a third.
Steel clashed at every rampart. The Unsullied surged over the crenellations, racing along the battlements and shouting:
"Father of Dragons! Father of Dragons!"
Creak!
Under the fierce assault of the Unsullied, the north gate burst open.
Drogo, who had held back until now, surged forward like a god of war, leading his khalasar into the city—slaying all in his path.
When Drogo said he was already a demon, he had meant the cold, merciless warrior he once was. But now, each time he struck down an enemy, their still-warm corpses were consumed by the heart in his hand—flesh and blood absorbed by some vile magic, leaving behind only husks.
This grotesque method of killing and erasing corpses horrified everyone—even Drogo's own warriors.
The Dothraki feared ghosts and spirits above all. The braid-wearing bloodriders believed the heart, wreathed in blue mist, was cursed. They begged him to destroy it.
Drogo wanted to follow their advice—but he simply couldn't.
To break the curse, he had to kill more than anyone else.
That towering figure cloaked in blue mist, killing without spilling blood—in everyone's eyes, he had become a true demon.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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