Fine wine brings intoxication. Drink too much and it slowly strips everything away, leading into a dreamless state.
Kraznys mo Nakloz, a man sunk in decadence, might've had the chance to discover that the blood-marked white lion cub he'd just obtained could climb pillars—if only he had kept a sleepless concubine or one of his many wives with him tonight.
The great master slept without dreams. But this night, Drogo dreamed—and his dream was vivid and dangerous. It began in Kraznys's bedroom, then focused on a pillar, then an oak beam, then another pillar leading to a colorful corridor.
The dream wandered down hallways, where sleepy guards and silent handmaidens became focal points. Avoiding their gazes, the dream passed through lavishly adorned corridors, then opened into a wide view: red-brick plazas, crimson towers, domed buildings painted in scarlet.
It crossed alleys and passed by beggars and starving slaves—ragged, gaunt, lifeless, like walking corpses. Their empty eyes flickered with a glimmer of desire. Shouts rang out, skeletal hands clawed, but the vision fled through a doghole too small for the famished to follow. Peace returned.
It moved again—faster—until it reached a vast square facing a massive red-lacquered city gate. At its center, a wooden platform swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. It held grotesque instruments of torture and mutilated slaves curled in agony.
Then the sound of trickling water. The stench of filth. Rats scavenging. The vision settled in a sewer.
Outside the crimson city of Astapor, Drogo awoke and clenched his fists, punching the air with a victorious cry.
"Me and Snowball—we're amazing!"
He couldn't hide his pride.
"Bran Stark could warg into his direwolf and share its sight. But me? I don't just see through Snowball—I can control him. Compared to any novice skinchanger, I must be stronger than the Three-Eyed Raven's chosen!"
Though it was still dark, he couldn't sleep. He lay staring at the top of the tent, thinking grand thoughts.
Suddenly, the flap stirred in the wind, and a faint perfume wafted in. Drogo sat bolt upright. A tall woman in a red lacquered mask stood silently beside his bed.
She was dressed almost exactly like Qaithe, the shadowbinder he'd seen perish in dragonflame.
"You—you're Qaithe?! You died!" he gasped.
The masked woman didn't answer directly. Her lips moved faintly, and a voice whispered like wind through bone:
"Rider of dragons, remember: to go north, you must first go south. To reach the west, you must travel east. To move forward, you must step back. And to find light… you must pass through shadow."
And just like that, she vanished.
"No… that wasn't Qaithe," Drogo muttered, eyes wide. "I saw her burn to nothing—nothing could've survived that."
But he knew rebirth wasn't impossible. He himself had lived it. Jon Snow, Beric Dondarrion—both had risen from death.
Still, Qaithe had been utterly destroyed. Could even a god revive her?
He didn't know much about shadowbinders, but he was certain of one thing: the woman had to be one of them. She came and went like a ghost. And she'd spoken the exact same riddle Qaithe once gave to Daenerys.
That puzzled Drogo. Logically, the message should've been meant for his wife—after all, she was the rightful child of prophecy. Not him.
Regardless of her identity, Drogo was convinced: the woman came from the Shadowlands, and she had some deep connection to Qaithe.
Enemy, not ally. That was his conclusion. After all, he was the reason Qaithe died.
To be watched by such a figure… Drogo dared not relax. He feared the unknown. He wanted to crawl into Daenerys's tent for comfort—but pride held him back.
So he stayed alert until dawn. At daybreak, he called in Qhira and Irri, who were already waiting outside his tent.
After washing up, he had them braid his hair into a short Dothraki plait and tie a bell to its end—to prove he was still a true Khal.
The night before, he had given orders: every warrior, elder, woman, and child would come with him to complete the trade—including Daenerys and her three dragons.
Before yesterday, Daenerys never would've exposed her children to danger. But after Oznak led a thousand Unsullied into her tent without consent, she understood: being outside the city was more dangerous than being inside.
As Drogo lifted the tent flap, he saw his khalasar lined up and ready.
They bowed their heads: "Khal!"
At the front stood Ser Jorah Mormont, clad in a full set of Westerosi armor—plate, mail, and wool. He looked formidable.
Drogo gave no speeches. Mounting the red horse brought over by his bloodriders, he raised his hand:
"Move out!"
"Yes, Khal!"
They rode around the walls to Astapor's open gate.
No one tried to stop them. Even the guards feared them too much to intervene.
The streets were crowded with civilians desperate to see the dragons. The bloodriders cleared the path, cracking whips and shouting:
"Clear the way! Make way for Khal Drogo!"
It was typical Dothraki aggression. Drogo didn't mind—he was too tense to care.
But Daenerys wasn't. She shouted in concern:
"Aggo, Rakharo, Jhogo—don't hurt anyone! These people have heard too many whips and suffered enough beatings!"
Drogo noted that silently: She really does care for these slaves. Perhaps she truly is the one to break the wheel.
Ser Jorah rode beside her, shielding his queen. Daenerys led her dragons on chains. They slithered along the ground, flapping their wings and hissing.
The beasts snarled and smoked, baring teeth and whipping their tails. Terrified commoners backed away, crowding together in fear.
Ahead lay Punishment Square. As they emerged from the corridor, Drogo saw the eight Great Masters gathered at the plaza's highest tier.
Kraznys mo Nakloz sat among them, sipping wine and nibbling fruit, chatting idly with the others. Each one had a maidservant standing by with a platter of food and wine.
To Drogo and his people, it didn't feel like a transaction.
It felt like a party. Or a bloodsport arena.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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