*DAENERYS — QARTH*
The city of Qarth was not a city. It was a fever dream that refused to end.
Three walls, each taller than Winterfell. The first of sandstone, carved with animals. The second of granite, carved with war. The third of black marble, carved with — things Dany did not understand. Things with too many eyes.
She hated it.
Late in 299 AC, Daenerys Targaryen was the richest beggar in the world. She had three dragons. No army. No ships. No home.
Xaro Xhoan Daxos gave her a palace and called her queen. "Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea," he said. "Mother of Dragons. Take my house. Take my gold. Take me." He offered her everything with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Pyat Pree gave her words too. Blue lips. Blue tongue.
"You are a wonder," the warlock whispered. "A living wonder, come to rebirth magic in the world. Come to the House of the Undying, and we will show you all."
Qarth wanted her dragons.
Jorah wanted her safe.
"The Qartheen are all liars," Ser Jorah told her on the terrace that night. The dragons — Drogon, Viserion, Rhaegal — crawled over her shoulders, hissing at the city lights. "They will smile while they rob you. They will weep while they kill you. We should have stayed in the Red Waste to die clean."
But Daenerys did not listen. She was fifteen, and she was tired of being afraid.
"I must know," she told him. "If I am queen or if I am nothing. They say the Undying know."
So she went.
The House of the Undying was a grey and windowless palace, with no door until the warlock made one appear. Inside, it was bigger than outside. Hallways turned in on themselves. She walked through corridors that breathed cold.
She saw visions.
A feast hall, dead kings on a throne, with a wolf's head sewn where a man's head should be. _Robb._ She did not know it yet.
A small man with a silver harp, a woman with violet eyes nursing a babe, saying _"His is the song of ice and fire."_ Her brother Rhaegar. She had never met him.
A red door. The house with the red door in Braavos. Lemon tree. Ser Willem. For a heartbeat she wanted to stay.
Then the Undying.
They were not men. They were blue and shriveled and old, older than Valyria, whispering around her in a circle. Whispering in a tongue she almost understood.
_Mother of Dragons... daughter of death... slayer of lies... child of three... three heads has the dragon..._
They reached for her. They reached for Drogon.
Drogon screamed.
Daenerys had never heard him scream like that.
"Dracarys," she whispered, then shouted. "DRACARYS!"
And Qarth burned.
The House of the Undying caught fire from the inside, a tower of blue flame that the whole city could see. The Undying burned. Pyat Pree burned, laughing.
Daenerys Targaryen walked out of the fire with her dragons on her shoulders, ash in her silver hair.
Outside, Xaro was waiting. Jorah was waiting, sword bloody.
She looked at Qarth — the greatest city that ever was or will be — and finally understood.
Qarth would never love her. No city would, until it feared her.
"We need ships," she told Jorah, her voice hoarse from smoke.
Beyond the walls, the Dothraki Sea was dead. Beyond that, Westeros. Beyond that, a cold wind was rising.
Late 299 AC, in Qarth, Daenerys Targaryen decided she would no longer be a beggar.
STORM'END....... (DRAGON RANCH)
Aegon was stunned by the power behind the slash, but the backlash was a bit strong.