Infused with surging vitality, Drogo's once withered and colorless arm swelled rapidly, like a parched desert quenched by sweet rain, swiftly returning to its full and robust state.
But the surge of life didn't stop there. As the blood energy filled his arm and spread throughout his entire body, crackling sounds erupted from within him. It was as if he were reborn—his fatigue vanished, every cell bursting with renewed vigor. His whole being brimmed with strength.
His already rock-solid muscles swelled further, making him appear even more mighty and savage. A commanding aura radiated from him, climbing to a higher level—one that struck fear into anyone who looked upon him. Seeing his strong, flexible, hormone-charged body, Drogo thought confidently, Daenerys will surely love me even more now.
The Khal was so immersed in the ecstasy of transformation that he momentarily forgot he was still on a battlefield. But he had nothing to fear—his warriors would kill every enemy for him.
Still, this power—so overwhelming it bordered on madness—was not something he had achieved through his own effort. It couldn't be sustained forever.
Pop!
With a soft sound, the heart shot from his hand like a flaming stone flung from a catapult, soaring skyward before plunging deep into the city.
The blood energy stopped flowing.
Then a voice echoed in his mind—ancient yet seductive, a young woman's voice brimming with mystery:
"We have waited more than a thousand years. The comet was our guide sent to the true heir of the dragons. But you are fortunate, Lord of the Dread Dragons. Do you wish to learn the ancient and arcane art of dragon-taming? Do you want to uncover the secret of the Unburnt? Then come to the House of the Undying, and drink deeply of truth and wisdom."
Hiss—
The voice was soft and gentle, but once it faded, Drogo's skull throbbed with sharp, stabbing pain, as though needles were piercing his brain.
He rapped his head lightly with the hilt of his blade, and only then did clarity return.
Drogo surmised that the strange heart had been part of a scheme devised by Pyat Pree, the warlock sent by the Undying Ones. The warlock's power came from the Water of Shadow, and on his own, he could never have drawn enough life essence to revive such a decaying heart.
The Undying Ones' true intent had always been to use Drogo's army to harvest vitality for them.
The Khal figured that these beings of extraordinary power must be bound to their dusty shadows by some ancient curse, unable to act directly—thus relying on others to fulfill their will.
Truthfully, even if they hadn't threatened his life, Drogo would still have slaughtered all of Qarth's enemies. From that alone, he judged that the Undying Ones were not truly omniscient.
Working for them had enhanced his body, and now he had the chance to enter the House of the Undying and seek the truths he longed to uncover. All things considered, it was a fair deal.
Even if it had cost countless enemy lives—and the lives of many of his own brave warriors.
In that moment, Drogo felt more sorrow than joy.
His personality mirrored the motto of Westeros's wealthiest house—the Lannisters: A Lannister always pays his debts.
Anyone who dared threaten him—even revered beings said to hold the secrets of immortality—would have to pay.
Qarth was technically a kingdom, but its obsession with trade had left its military forces weak. Once their mercenaries—hired with gold—were defeated, the Glorious City would fall completely.
Following Daenerys's principles, the newly unshackled Drogo immediately ordered his warriors to kill only those who resisted. Civilians were not to be harmed in the slightest. He would not allow this place to become a hell on earth.
He knew all too well that if Daenerys arrived to see corpses of old and young alike strewn across the city, she would sob, scream, and sulk—and he'd be in for another cold war of silence and sleeping apart.
Guided by an Unsullied born in Qarth, Drogo slowly advanced toward the Thousand Thrones, the seat of power in the Glorious City.
Until now, his focus had been solely on battle, and he hadn't taken the time to appreciate the famed opulence of this eastern capital. Now, as the dust settled, he found himself amazed by Qarth's magnificence.
The city was filled with buildings inlaid with jade, obsidian, and lapis lazuli. Its architects had conjured a dreamy palette of rose, violet, and umber—like a fantasy brought to life in stone.
Slender towers lined the streets, and every square featured elegant fountains carved into griffins, dragons, and manticores.
Terrified Qartheen huddled by the roads or hid inside ornate buildings, peeking at the invaders through curtained windows.
They were a tall and fair-skinned people, so pale that the rugged Dothraki had dubbed them "milk people."
Clothed in linen, brocade, and tiger pelts, they adorned themselves with extravagant jewelry on their necks, heads, and hands. The women wore robes that covered only one side; the men preferred pearl-studded silk skirts.
To Drogo, they all looked like lords and ladies—noble, rich, and untouched by poverty.
Compared to them, his warriors looked like savages. But the Khal felt no shame. The Qartheen were now beneath him—his to tread upon.
He could even command them to eat shit—and they wouldn't dare refuse.
As he marched behind his guide through alleys and avenues, he passed a grand arched street lined with enormous white-and-green marble pillars. Standing atop them were statues of ancient Qartheen heroes, each three times the size of a man.
According to his guide, this avenue lay beside the city's most prosperous marketplace, housed inside a vast multi-faceted building. Its latticed ceiling had become home to thousands of brilliantly colored birds.
The shops were shuttered tight, as expected. Drogo wasn't here for bustling crowds. He was here for the gold and jewels hidden behind locked doors.
An hour later, he reached the seat of royal power.
Inside, rows of wooden chairs curved upward along marble steps, rising toward a towering circular dome. That dome was painted with scenes of Qarth's glorious past.
The thrones—handed down from ancestors—were massive, gilded, and strangely carved. Each was inlaid with amber, onyx, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. No two were alike. Each was a masterpiece of craftsmanship.
Those who sat upon them reclined with their eyes closed, as if bored and weary—as they had always appeared. But now, they would never wake again.
Drogo knew this was the work of the warlock Pyat Pree.
These royals were the descendants of Qarth's ancient kings and queens. They had commanded the city's guards and its luxurious fleet, which once ruled the straits between seas.
That fleet had been launched even before Drogo had taken the city—it was the same one used by the Golden Company and the Unsullied in their naval battles. Now, every ship was battered and broken, the only difference being how badly.
Still, with Qarth as his launching point, Drogo had no worries about sailing to Westeros. He had gold. He had shipwrights. He had sailors.
Thinking of sailors, Drogo mused: if the Golden Company hadn't been so inept at naval warfare, the Unsullied would never have defeated them so quickly—even with dragons.
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