Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Khal Drogo's party was lost in the sea of flowers.

Yesterday they had been riding free across open grassland. Now every direction was nothing but seven-colored blooms.

"Cohollo, do you remember the way to the Masai lands?" Drogo asked.

"My blood of my blood, the sun is our only guide now. The flowers have swallowed every landmark."

Cohollo was the oldest of Drogo's bloodriders, a veteran from his father's generation. Even he had never ridden this far into Masai territory.

"You're right," Qotho agreed. "We follow the sun."

On the open plains the sky was usually a clear blue dome. Today the sun barely showed its face before thick black clouds rolled in like a tidal wave. The world went dark in seconds.

Wind howled across the grassland. The Qiq i flowers rattled and whispered. Then the rain came—fat drops at first, then a hammering downpour that turned the world into silver curtains.

The flowers drank the rain and exploded in growth, spreading even faster. Herds that had been fighting moments earlier now scattered for cover under trees and into burrows.

"Khaleesi—no, Khal," one rider shouted over the storm. "What do we do?"

"Find flat ground. Make camp. We wait the rain out."

Inside Masai territory the children had been playing when the hunting party came crashing back, covered in cuts and blood, faces pale with fear.

"Marcos is back!" the kids yelled, running toward them.

The hunters dropped to the ground, gasping. Only after checking that nothing had followed did they relax.

"Water," Marcos rasped. "Kids, bring water."

Small boys ran with wooden bowls and a bucket. The men drank until they could breathe again.

"Those flowers are worse than elephants," one hunter said. "They grow faster than we can run."

Marcos wiped blood from his face. "The old prophecy called them demon flowers. It also said the horse people would finally unite and a king bearing fire would burn them away and save us."

Prophecy was nothing new in this world. The Starks in the North had their "Winter is coming." The red priests in Asshai spoke of Azor Ahai reborn.

"We fight them anyway," Marcos growled. "Sound the war drums."

The Masai war drums and gongs boomed across the village. Every man, woman, and child— even five-year-olds clutching knives—gathered.

Marcos climbed onto a high rock.

"The demon flowers have come! But the prophecy also promises our king will arrive with flame to save us. We do not give up!"

"Gather wood. Bring oil. We burn them before they reach our homes."

They didn't dig trenches. They built pyres.

In the distance the flowers rustled louder, advancing visibly across the ground.

The Qiq i flowers had swallowed almost the entire Dothraki sea. Other tribes suffered too—fields buried, herds starving. The first people who had eaten the flowers were already collapsing.

In Sheep Village, Lazy Sheep knelt beside his friend Little Airplane, shaking him.

"Little Airplane! Don't you dare die on me!"

The sheep man's eyes were glassy. "Lazy Sheep… Village Chief… are we all going to die? I want to go home to the Green Grassland. I don't want to die here…"

Slow Sheep's face was grim.

"Greed did this. If you hadn't eaten the flowers and spread them, we wouldn't be in this mess. Get every affected person to the medical room. Now. I'm starting IVs."

The Sheep Village still had working medical facilities—basic surgery and full IV capability, even if their high-tech toys were gone.

Dothraki and Little Airplane were carried in. Slow Sheep moved between them, hanging nutrient drips straight into their veins.

Daenerys watched in shock. "Village Chief… what is this? It's saving them?"

Jorah stared too. "Even the best maesters in Oldtown don't have anything like this."

"They can't sleep," Slow Sheep explained. "Their brains are starving. These drips buy time—nothing more. We need Happy Sheep and the dragons to finish burning the roots."

Daenerys's voice was soft. "This medicine… it's centuries ahead of anything in our world. Are you from the future?"

Slow Sheep laughed, the sound big and warm.

"We're sheep people. Plain and simple. Our wool is white because we're pure sheep—绵羊."

Jorah blinked. "Beastmen? Like in the old stories?"

"In your Western tales, sure. But we're just sheep. Nothing fancy."

Slow Sheep looked at both of them and grinned.

"Stop worrying about whether your allies are human. Standing right here we have the last true dragon—Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons—and the big bear himself, Ser Jorah Mormont of House Mormont. One carries the three-headed dragon. The other wears the bear. You two are already legends. What's a few sheep among friends?"