Chapter 151 — A Target Locked
Only Daenerys Targaryen, who knew Drogon's title as the "Dragon God of the Dothraki Sea," vaguely grasped what had just happened.
Even so, she merely believed Drogon was revered like other gods by the Dothraki. She had never imagined that he already possessed something akin to divinity itself.
Still, whatever the truth, seeing him frighten Quaithe into retreat filled her with relief. The fear she once held toward those mysterious and unknowable forces eased considerably.
Quaithe's sudden visit did little to dampen the group's mood. Once the food and wine arrived, everyone raised their cups, toasting Daenerys's journey to Westeros and her eventual claim to the Iron Throne.
Now that he had forelimbs, Drogon no longer needed to awkwardly clutch cups with his wings. Instead, he held a goblet properly, lifting himself into the air to clink glasses with everyone—saving a special toast just for Daenerys.
Drogon drank occasionally—this much everyone knew. Especially Tyrion Lannister, who had witnessed it firsthand.
Volantis cuisine leaned heavily toward sweetness, thanks to its abundance of sugar beets—even the wine was sweet. The group found it hard to adapt and had the servants bring several alternatives, finally settling on a mildly sweet-and-sour red.
It was a rare moment of ease. Aside from Barristan Selmy, everyone drank freely. Even Daenerys became slightly tipsy.
Drogon, however, remained the most sober of them all.
After his transformation, even getting mildly drunk had become difficult. He would need to down dozens of jars of strong liquor before feeling anything at all.
---
While they drank and celebrated, Quaithe returned to the temple of R'hllor in Volantis and demanded access to the sacred altar.
The guards found it strange—a shadowbinder from Asshai requesting to activate the altar at night—but did not refuse her. As a devout follower, she was granted entry, along with ritual offerings.
Lighting the sacrifice, she reported what she had sensed from Drogon… including the impossible suspicion forming in her mind.
Moments later—
The flames erupted violently.
What she saw within them nearly caused her to collapse.
She stood frozen for a long time before finally stumbling out to seek the temple's high priest, Benerro.
---
After two days of rest, Daenerys's fleet departed Volantis once more.
Less than a day later, they reached the treacherous waters of the Stepstones—a maze of reefs and hidden dangers.
Anticipating this, the Volantene magistrate had assigned an experienced helmsman to guide them safely through.
Legend claimed that twelve thousand years ago, the Stepstones were not scattered islands but part of a land bridge—the Arm of Dorne—connecting Westeros and Essos.
When the First Men crossed into Westeros, the Children of the Forest, led by their greenseers, shattered the land bridge with powerful magic, creating the broken chain of islands that remained today.
Drogon wasn't sure whether the tale was true.
As they passed through, he carefully searched for any lingering aura—but found nothing.
Either the legend was false… or time had erased all traces of that ancient power.
Once past the treacherous waters, the fleet entered open sea between Lys and Myr, no longer threatened by hidden reefs.
---
Far to the north, beyond the Wall—
Inside a weirwood cave, Bran Stark trained under the guidance of Brynden Rivers, the Three-Eyed Raven.
Through visions, Bran learned the truth.
He saw his father, Eddard Stark, die in King's Landing.
He witnessed his mother and brother flee the massacre of the Red Wedding.
He saw his sisters unite to kill Petyr Baelish.
And deeper still—
He saw the origin of the White Walkers.
When the Children of the Forest were losing their war against the First Men, even the destruction of the Arm of Dorne could not stop the invasion.
Desperate, they captured a man… bound him to a weirwood… and drove a dragonglass dagger into his heart.
Through ancient magic, they transformed him into the first of the White Walkers.
At first, the plan worked.
It forced the First Men and the Children to make peace on the Isle of Faces—ushering in four thousand years of fragile harmony across Westeros.
But some creations… are never meant to be controlled.
For reasons no one could fully explain, the White Walkers eventually fell out of control. They turned against both the Children of the Forest and the First Men alike.
After thousands of years of bitter war, the two sides finally pushed them back—and in the aftermath, they raised the great barrier known as The Wall to guard against their return.
---
Ever since fleeing The Dreadfort, Bran Stark had heard nothing of his mother or his sister Sansa Stark.
Only through the greensight did he finally piece together the truth behind the disasters that had befallen his family.
Vision after vision of the past had tempered him. The impulsive boy he once was had faded—replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.
He understood now: there was nothing he could do to help them.
All he could do… was learn.
At this very moment, his eyes had rolled white as he drifted through the currents of history within the greensight.
But Bran also knew this—
Humanity's greatest enemy, the White Walkers, was drawing ever closer to the Wall.
So he decided to see them for himself.
---
The moment the thought formed, his presence appeared beyond the Wall, in a vast wilderness buried beneath falling snow.
Standing atop the frozen expanse, he turned slowly, scanning the land.
Nothing.
With a shift of will, he moved farther still—gliding across distances as easily as thought itself.
He was beginning to enjoy this feeling…
this freedom of drifting through the world.
He landed again and looked into the distance.
Still nothing.
Just as he prepared to move once more—
He froze.
Then turned sharply back.
At the edge of the forest he had just inspected… figures were emerging.
One… two… then dozens.
More and more shapes staggered out from the treeline.
As they drew closer, Bran could finally see them clearly.
Corpses.
Their clothes were torn, their flesh rotting—some missing limbs entirely.
And yet… they kept moving.
Step by step.
Slow. Unsteady.
But relentless.
The damage to their bodies only made them stagger—it did nothing to stop them.
Watching the growing tide of the dead, a chill crept into Bran's heart.
He had fought them before—through Hodor's body.
He knew the truth behind those slow, dragging steps.
When they chased the living…
they were anything but slow.
---
Just as he began wondering how humanity could possibly stand against them—
A sudden sensation struck him.
He turned to the right.
There—standing apart—
A White Walker in light armor, its eyes glowing an icy blue, was staring directly at him.
At him.
…It could see him?
The realization sent a jolt of fear through Bran.
It reminded him of the first time he had peered upon the black dragon—and of the warning given by Brynden Rivers.
Some beings… were powerful enough to perceive the greensight.
To reach back.
To touch the watcher.
---
Panic surged.
Bran turned and ran, trying to force himself out of the vision.
Again and again, he struggled to withdraw—
But nothing happened.
He couldn't leave.
---
In the real world—
"Bran! Wake up, Bran!"
Meera Reed shook him desperately as his body trembled uncontrollably.
Inside the cave, Brynden Rivers sensed something was wrong.
Without hesitation, he entered the greensight.
In an instant, he appeared beside Bran.
He cast a single glance ahead—
The White Walker… and behind it—
The Night King, closing in.
No time to waste.
Grabbing Bran, Brynden tore him out of the vision—
Just before they were reached.