Aegon's Warning
Aegon stood atop a rocky outcrop, his silver hair whipping in the desert wind. His hands clenched into fists as an overwhelming sense of dread crept into his bones. It was as if the world itself had shifted—the air had grown heavier, the stars seemed dimmer.
Something was coming.
Something unnatural.
He turned to Daenerys and Ser Jorah Mormont, his expression grim. "We are no longer safe. Something beyond our understanding moves against us. We must be ready."
Daenerys narrowed her violet eyes. "What is it?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it's hunting us."
The remnants of the Dothraki horde, though weakened, immediately began to prepare. Swords were sharpened, bows strung, fires lit to ward off the darkness. They had survived in the wilds long enough to know when a storm was coming.
As the tension thickened, Arya and Ned Stark approached.
"What's happening?" Arya demanded.
Aegon looked at Ned, his expression unreadable. "Protect her."
Ned frowned. "Aegon, tell me—"
"Just do it."
With that, Aegon turned away, scanning the horizon. His instincts screamed that the hunt had already begun.
The Apostles' Camp
Far from the Dothraki camp, within the ancient ruins of a forgotten city, the Apostles of the Dark Masters had made their camp.
The five figures stood in a circle, their crimson and black robes billowing unnaturally despite the still air.
They could feel it.
The Blood of the Dragon pulsed like a beacon in Essos. A second power—**primal, ancient, and cold as the grave—**lurched to life in the North, beyond the Wall.
One of the figures knelt, whispering into the void.
A voice answered.
A voice twisted by time and shadow.
It did not speak like men did. It echoed, distorted, as if it came from a place where words had been forgotten.
"Retrieve the Blood of the Dragon. Retrieve the Cold Power. They must be ours."
The five figures nodded as one. Two would remain. Three would travel north.
The Creation of Monsters
The two remaining Apostles worked quickly.
In the center of their camp, they built an altar of bones.
A dozen children, stolen from nearby villages, were laid upon the cold stone. Their small bodies trembled in the dim firelight, their cries muffled by dark spells.
There was no mercy here.
The Apostles whispered their incantations, carving runes into their own flesh as the sacrifices began.
One by one, the children screamed.
One by one, their bodies twisted.
Their flesh blackened. Their bones cracked and reshaped.
Twenty creatures were born from blood and suffering—Striga, monstrous beings of claws and unnatural hunger. Their eyes glowed like embers, their forms crouched and twitching, sniffing the air for the scent of their prey.
And then, the ritual was complete.
The ground beneath them trembled.
From the depths of the ruin, something massive crawled forth.
A **spider—black as the abyss, fangs dripping with venom, legs stretching over twenty feet—**emerged, its many eyes gleaming with hunger.
It let out a screech that split the night in two.
The hunt had begun.