"No! Absolutely not!"
Ser Jorah Mormont—ever the loyal dog with a crush—was the first to shout, his face full of alarm.
"Khaleesi mustn't go in alone! It's too dangerous!"
"But my dragons are in there!" Daenerys retorted, clutching her chest as though the very thought pained her. "I have to go!"
"Enough. Both of you, listen to me."
Aedric raised a hand, silencing their argument. His voice was calm, but edged with authority.
"I've studied the history of this city.
Over a century ago, the warlocks were the only rulers of Qarth.
Their magic was feared and revered by all."
He paused, then continued,
"But one day, about a hundred years ago, all magic suddenly vanished.
The warlocks lost their power and were reduced to sideshow tricksters,
while control of the city passed into the hands of the merchant princes—what we now call the Thirteen."
Turning to Daenerys, who seemed deep in thought, Aedric asked,
"Tell me, Daenerys. As a Targaryen, do you remember what happened a hundred years ago?"
Daenerys frowned, then her eyes lit up as realization struck.
"A hundred years ago… the dragons disappeared!
And when the dragons died, magic faded away with them!"
"Exactly." Aedric nodded approvingly. "Dragons are the purest magical creatures in existence.
Magic is born from dragons—and dies with them."
"Which explains why those powerless warlocks suddenly dared to kill and conspire again.
The dragons returned—so magic returned."
Daenerys clenched her fists.
"So that's why they stole my dragons… They want to monopolize the power that comes with them."
"Not just the dragons." Aedric smiled faintly. "You, Daenerys, are also vital.
Magic is born from dragons—but dragons were born because of you."
"They've waited over a century for magic to return.
They won't risk anything happening to you or your dragons.
If killing you meant the dragons vanished again, all their plans would be for nothing."
Ser Jorah still looked confused.
"But if they value her life, why frame you, Sword Saint?
If you'd lost control when we confronted you, Khaleesi could've been killed!"
Aedric smiled coldly.
"Daenerys, do you remember how that warlock disappeared just now?"
She nodded slowly.
"If I had gone berserk," Aedric explained, "I'd have killed you all first.
And when only Daenerys was left standing, the warlock would have reappeared—'miraculously'—to save her life."
He looked directly at Daenerys.
"All your followers dead. The so-called Northern madman out for your blood.
Then a powerful, mysterious savior invites you to the House of the Undying for safety.
Tell me, Daenerys—would you have gone?"
She froze, then whispered,
"I… I would have gone."
"Exactly. And once you did—you'd never leave again."
A chill ran through her body. The thought that she had been one step away from walking into an eternal prison made her tremble.
Aedric's eyes hardened.
"But those warlocks miscalculated two things.
First, I'm not the kind of man who kills before understanding the truth."
He turned to Arya and held out his hand.
She obediently passed him her dragonbone dagger.
Blue flames burst from the blade as Aedric infused it with dragonfire, the glow casting sharp shadows across his face.
"And second—they assumed this world obeys their rules.
They thought one magic gate could stop everything.
They forgot there exists something magic fears above all…"
"Like this."
He flicked his wrist.
A searing blue fireball shot from his hand like a cannon blast, smashing into the towering iron doors.
The impact was instant and devastating—the anti-magic flames burned through the enchantments like acid through paper. The great doors were blown clean off their hinges, crashing backward into darkness.
As the collapsing entrance revealed a black, yawning passage, Jorah instinctively moved to rush in.
Aedric stopped him with a single hand.
"Didn't you hear what I said?
The warlocks won't harm Daenerys—but they won't hesitate to kill you."
"I don't care!" Jorah's voice trembled with devotion. "I can't let her go in there alone!"
Aedric glanced at him—the man's bulky, scarred face looked like something out of a zombie movie, yet his expression was that of a lovesick puppy.
The contrast made Aedric almost choke on his laughter.
From final boss to faithful simp, he thought dryly. Talk about character development.
Suppressing his urge to comment, Aedric looked around at the tense crowd.
"No need to argue. I'll go in with Daenerys.
I have my own score to settle with that warlock."
Daenerys's eyes softened.
"Thank you, Sword Saint. I truly don't know how to repay you."
"No need," Aedric replied, waving it off. "Technically, I'm part of this mess too."
He handed Arya her dagger back and gently held the restless girl in place before she could volunteer herself. Then he extended his left hand toward Daenerys and smiled.
"Since I'm bringing you in, I'll also bring you out—safe and sound.
You have my word, as the Storm Sword Saint."
Daenerys smiled, her violet eyes shining.
She placed her hand in his and said solemnly,
"Then I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, entrust my life to you,
Lord Jon Snow—the Storm Sword Saint."
Aedric nearly rolled his eyes.
Two "Stormborns" in one party—how original.
Still, he tightened his grip on her hand and led her forward.
Under the watchful gaze of the others, the two stepped through the shattered gate into the dark, echoing hall of the Undying.
The passage twisted endlessly, the air thick with illusion.
Finally, they reached another set of heavy doors.
Aedric pushed Daenerys gently aside and reached out to open them.
The moment the door creaked open—his vision blurred.
A flash of white engulfed him.
Suddenly he was standing in a frozen wasteland, wind howling, snow blinding his eyes.
Daenerys was gone.
"An illusion," he muttered.
Drawing on his dragonfire, Aedric sent its warmth surging through his body.
The world around him shattered like glass.
In the blink of an eye, he was back inside the hall.
Daenerys stood before him, motionless—eyes vacant, clearly ensnared by the illusion herself.
"Not bad," Aedric admitted softly. "The House of the Undying really does live up to its name."
From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow stir.
A warlock crept toward him, dagger in hand—the blade glimmering faintly blue, coated with deadly poison.
"As expected," Aedric sighed. "Everyone but Daenerys is fair game."
He drew the True Martial Sword, and with a single downward slash, cleaved the warlock cleanly in two.
Listening to the echoes of panicked footsteps retreating into the distance, Aedric stood still beside Daenerys, sword in hand.
He would wait.
Because if there was one thing he knew from watching the show—
Destiny would not let Daenerys Stormborn fall here.
~~--------------------------
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