Another month had passed, yet the fabled waystation of the Red Waste—the "City of Dry Bones"—remained nowhere in sight. Doubt began to creep into Drogo's heart. Could the gap between fiction and reality truly be this wide?
Still, he was certain that Qarth—the golden city—existed. Too many had spoken of it. In Vaes Dothrak, he had even encountered jewel merchants who claimed to come from its gates.
He believed that if they simply followed the path of the Bleeding Star, always southeast, they would eventually reach Qarth.
But now, they had given everything and received nothing in return. Food and water were dwindling fast. No plan survives the unknown, and Drogo's confidence was beginning to fray.
Perhaps it was because they trusted their khal too deeply, but his people had consumed their rations without moderation. After serious deliberation, Drogo finally admitted, somewhat awkwardly, that their chances of reaching the goal were slim. From that day forward, he commanded strict rationing—no more waste, no more feasting.
The order caused an uproar, but Drogo's word was law. The khalasar could only obey.
Day after day passed, and the land grew more desolate. Even the stubborn devilgrass had vanished. Horses collapsed one after another, reduced to meat rations. The khalasar grew gaunt and ghostlike, marching forward each morning on pure will alone.
Only the baby dragons remained full of life.
What scorched others seemed to invigorate them. The heat became a source of energy, helping them grow stronger by the day.
Their bodies were dominated by long necks, tails, and wings. Each pair of wings was three times the length of their bodies—membranes of translucent skin stretched between vivid-colored bones. Even their own parents were sometimes stunned by the dragons' appearance. As for everyone else, they kept their distance, terrified of being accidentally scorched.
Over the months, the hatchlings had grown from the size of water skins to the size of Snowball, the white lion cub. When they spread their wings, they could easily cast a shadow over a full-grown horse.
They had even started attempting to fly. Though their flights always ended in clumsy crashes, and they vented their frustration with puffs of white smoke, it was still a sign of progress.
At night, Drogo and Daenerys let the dragons rest on their bodies, using them like living heaters against the cold.
Snowball, by contrast, fared poorly in the Red Waste. Native to the grassy plains, the cub could hardly bear the harsh desert. It spent most of its days listless and lethargic. Only the dragons' playful nudging and occasional lift helped it press forward.
Then one day, Drogo's worst fear became reality.
Doreah—the handmaiden he had been silently observing as a test subject—fell ill. Just as described in the book, she had contracted heat plague. And the disease moved fast, as if a sandstorm of red dust had devoured her from within.
First came blood blisters on her lips and hands. Then her hair fell out in handfuls. In just three days, her body oozed pus—and she died in agony.
No one grieved more than Daenerys. The girl from Lys had once been her mentor, teaching her how to win Drogo's favor in the early days.
After the funeral rites, Drogo lit the pyre himself. As the flames rose, he wondered: "Is fate truly unchangeable? If I, who should have been ash, still walk this earth—where does my road truly end?"
For the first time, he felt regret. He had wanted to reach Qarth to find answers in the House of the Undying. But now he questioned it all. What if the truth he sought was terrible? Wouldn't it be worse to live with that knowledge?
Sometimes, knowing was more terrifying than ignorance. His thoughts tangled—fiction and reality overlapping in maddening ways.
Watching him crouched beside the flames, clutching his head in silence, Daenerys began to wonder... Had something happened between him and Doreah?
She was wrong, of course. Drogo had once been a beast who took what he wanted. He had never needed to sneak.
Maybe death was just part of the cycle. Doreah's passing brought hope for the living.
That very night, it came.
A city, pure white beneath the moon, appeared like a mirage—beautiful and surreal.
But when Drogo heard the cries of joy from the khalasar, he knew it was real.
The legendary city, long promised yet never seen, had been found at last.
Many had given up hope. Though few voiced complaints aloud, Drogo had felt Daenerys's displeasure deeply. Now, with this miracle before him, his pride surged again. Turning back dramatically, he shouted:
"This is the dreamlike city I promised you! It has no master—only bounty! Within lies fruit without end, water sweet as honey, palaces to shelter every soul! My people—what are you waiting for? Go!"
The khalasar erupted in cheers.
But just as he stirred the crowd into a frenzy, Irri stepped forward, eyes filled with dread.
"Khal, if this is a city without an owner, it means the gods have abandoned it. Such places are cursed. Spirits and demons roam freely at night. We should avoid it."
"We're already close to death! If we don't eat or drink soon, we'll be the ones haunting this place!"
Drogo's answer was blunt. He waved his arm:
"Forward!"
He charged ahead like a bandit, and the others—driven by hope and desperation—rushed after him. Even Daenerys threw aside her restraint and ran with all her strength.
But just as Drogo reached the crumbling gate, he spotted something and threw up his hand.
"Wait!"
Too late.
The stampede behind him slammed him into the dirt.
"Mother—!"
Cursing instinctively, Drogo brushed himself off. Then he pointed toward the sand ahead.
"Look—fresh hoofprints. They haven't been covered by the wind. Someone's already inside."
The khalasar murmured, some silently scoffing—so much for an "abandoned city."
Still, there was no turning back. Drogo led them in, hoping to find travelers like themselves.
Suddenly, Drogon hissed sharply on his shoulder.
The ruins provided shelter from the wind, but strangely, the gusts inside were even stronger. The chill cut straight to the bone, far colder than anything outside.
Irri hugged herself and crept to Drogo's side.
"Khal... let's leave," she whispered. "Even the dragons are uneasy. They... they may have seen something."
Drogo turned irritably. "There are no spirits. Stop imagining things!"
He turned back to follow the tracks—and froze.
A face appeared before him—deathly pale, lips blue as ice, skin stretched over bone, twisted in a chilling grin.
"A ghost!"
Drogo swung his blade reflexively, slicing the figure in two.
But it was like slashing mist—no blood, no scream.
The thing writhed and vanished... gone in three heartbeats.
.
.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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