Chapter 283: The Undying

Qarth, across the Narrow Sea.

Daenerys Targaryen walked through the oppressive darkness of the House of the Undying. Overhead, the sound of Drogon's wings beating the air brought her a small measure of comfort.

The ominous surroundings did little to ease her nerves. She had expected grandeur—a place of splendor befitting the mighty sorcerers of Qarth. Instead, the halls were cold, sinister, and filled with decay.

"Remember, Daenerys," the warlock's voice echoed in her mind. "Once you enter, always take the first door on the right. Always."

Reaching the first door on her right, she pushed it open, stepping into a dimly lit hallway. A rotting carpet muffled her footsteps, and the air reeked of mold and corruption.

On her right, torches burned, their smoke twisting like dark serpents. On her left, door after door stretched into the distance, each emanating strange and unsettling sounds.

Daenerys clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to turn toward the left. "The first door on the right," she repeated to herself. She pressed forward, searching for another door on the right—but none appeared.

"Little princess, you've come home," a familiar voice called from behind.

She froze. It was Ser Willem Darry's voice—her childhood guardian.

Turning, she saw a red wooden door carved with intricate animal motifs. Her heart twisted. She recognized it immediately.

It was the house in Braavos where she had spent her early years—a sanctuary filled with fleeting warmth before the bitterness of exile consumed her life.

"Come in, my princess," the voice called again, warm and gentle. "You're safe now. You're home."

Tears welled in her eyes. How she wanted to open that door and step into the past. But the warlock's warning echoed in her mind. Ser Willem was long dead.

"This is an illusion," she whispered, her tears falling as she turned away and fled.

The hallway stretched endlessly, torches burning on her right, doors still only on her left. She ran, her breath catching, her heart pounding.

After what felt like an eternity, she stopped in front of two massive bronze doors on the left. They creaked open of their own accord.

Inside, an elderly man sat upon a jagged, thorny throne. His hair was silver-gray, his face sharp and cruel.

"Let me be king of the ashes and charred bones!" he roared. "Let me be the King of the Wasteland!"

Drogon screeched above her, urging her forward.

Daenerys moved to the next open bronze door. Inside, a man who looked strikingly like her brother Viserys stood tall. Yet, unlike Viserys, this man exuded strength and majesty.

"Name him Aegon," he said to a woman reclining on a bed, nursing a baby. "For a king, there is no better name."

"Will you write him a song?" the woman asked, her voice soft and lilting. She wore a crown of winter roses in her hair.

"He already has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, the song of ice and fire."

He turned, his gaze meeting Daenerys's.

"There must always be three," he murmured, though it was unclear if he spoke to the woman or to her. "The dragon has three heads."

Drogon flapped his wings, pulling her attention forward. Daenerys tore her eyes away and ran, leaving the visions behind.

Suddenly, the torches extinguished, plunging her into complete darkness. The silence was suffocating. She reached out blindly, feeling along the cold walls.

At last, the hallway came to an abrupt end. No path forward, no doors on the right.

"Could it be hidden?" she muttered, her hands searching the stone wall for an invisible door. She felt nothing.

Then it dawned on her—the first door on the right… could it be the last door on the left?

She turned, rushing to the final door on her left, pushing it open.

Inside was a vast hall bathed in golden light. Men and women dressed in elegant robes stood solemnly in a circle, their expressions regal and serene. Dust particles floated in the sunbeams, giving the air a sacred glow.

"Daenerys of House Targaryen," a man who appeared to be a king said, stepping forward. "Welcome to the Eternal Feast. We are the Undying of Qarth."

"We have awaited you for so long," said a woman in a flowing red gown.

"We knew you would come," said a warlock wearing a tall, pointed hat. "The comet was our signal to you."

Daenerys felt herself being drawn toward them. They extended their hands, their smiles warm and inviting.

"Join us," they urged. "Share in our feast, partake of our knowledge. Here, you will find everything you desire."

Her vision blurred, her steps faltered. The promise of their words was intoxicating.

A sudden strike to her head jolted her back to reality. Drogon screeched, his wings beating fiercely. Flames erupted from his mouth, consuming the illusion.

The air filled with screams as the Undying writhed in the dragonfire.

"Remember who you are, Daenerys," the voice of the Qarthian witch echoed in her mind. "Remember who you are."

Blinking rapidly, she looked around, horrified. The majestic figures of the Undying had vanished, replaced by desiccated corpses, their flesh long decayed.

They were skeletal, their hollow eyes fixated on her.

"We… still live," they rasped. "We… are eternal…"

Their bony fingers clawed at her, desperate for her vitality.

Drogon unleashed another wave of fire, reducing the corpses to ash.

Amid the inferno, Daenerys saw a vision—an endless sea, tempestuous waves crashing violently.

A tall, dark-haired man stood at the shore, clad in bronze armor etched with intricate runes. In his hand was a greatsword, glowing like the setting sun. His eyes were mismatched—one gleamed red-gold, the other was pure white.

Behind him, a towering white dragon roared, its scales shimmering with unearthly light.

Daenerys's heart raced. "Who are you?" she shouted, her voice trembling with urgency and hope.

The man's lips curved into a sorrowful smile. He did not answer.

"Are you my brother?" she cried, stepping closer. "Are you also of a dragons blood?"

The man still did not respond, half his body engulfed in flames, the other half cloaked in frost. His eyes, once filled with sadness, now reflected an icy void.

Around him, indistinct figures knelt in reverence, their voices rising in chants of adoration.

"Tell me your name!" Daenerys pleaded, chasing his shadow.

A door of radiant light materialized before her. She stumbled through it, emerging into the warm sunlight outside.

She turned to see the ancient palace of the Undying smoldering behind her, tendrils of smoke rising from its stone walls.

The warlock who had led her there screamed incoherently in a language she could not understand. Drawing a dagger, he lunged toward her.

Before he could strike, Ser Jorah Mormont's whip cracked through the air, coiling around the man's arm and flinging him to the ground.

"Are you hurt, my queen?" Jorah asked, rushing to her side.

Daenerys did not respond. She knelt, staring into the distance, her face pale and expression blank.

At last, in a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured a name she had never heard before:

"Caesar…"

(End of Chapter)