GoT and House of The Dragon: The Last Valyrian Dragonlord.

At first, it was just a flicker of flame.

Lozar watched as the young red priest was consumed by the fire. His flesh blackened and blistered, yet there was no pain in his expression—only an almost fanatical intensity as he stared back at him. As if urging him to continue.

These two red priests were not true followers of R'hllor—not in the orthodox sense. In fact, within the Grand Temple, they were considered heretics.

R'hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Flame, the God of Shadow and Fire, of Heat and Life. His faith spanned across the Free Cities of Essos, where his followers believed in the eternal struggle between their god and the Great Other, the dark force of ice and death. To them, R'hllor was the one true god, and all other deities were false.

But Ben-Durro and his young apprentice, Malahar, held a slightly different view. Both came from ancient Valyrian bloodlines before joining the priesthood. While they revered R'hllor, they believed even more strongly in the power of dragons and the forgotten gods of Old Valyria. In the days when the Valyrian Freehold ruled the lands west of the Bones, the worship of R'hllor had been nothing more than a faith for slaves and commoners. The dragonlords saw themselves as divine, their gods mere relics, and the beliefs of the conquered beneath their notice.

Malahar, the younger of the two, held an even more radical belief—he saw R'hllor as nothing more than a fabrication, a myth spun by the dragonlords to pacify the masses. He hadn't even realized that his own name bore a resemblance to the god he denied.

Yet, in his devotion, Malahar was more fervent than most priests who spent their days chanting about the "one true god." His faith, whether misplaced or not, burned bright.

Perhaps because of their Valyrian heritage, the two possessed far greater mastery over fire magic than their peers. The temple elders, wary of their blasphemous views, tolerated them only because their magic was necessary to bolster the faith's influence.

That tolerance ended when they accepted Cleorius's invitation—to study the mysteries of magic and dragons alongside him.

Lozar tightened his grip on the Valyrian steel dagger. "Ben-Durro, you gave me your word," he said. "Malahar will survive this, won't he?"

The old red priest nodded. "My lord, before I came here, I gazed into the flames and saw the Lord of Light's will. He is pleased with your undertaking tonight. The price He asks is flesh, not life."

Ben-Durro lowered his head. "The blood of the dragon's kin. The flesh of a faithful servant. And pure flame. Together, they will pierce the mists of history and reveal the path to the lost boy."

Malahar, still ablaze, gave a small nod of encouragement. Then, with a swift motion, he drove the dagger into his own chest, carving a chunk of flesh from his heart and tossing it into the fire.

The flames roared to life.

The colorless fire solidified, curling around Lozar without touching him, as if waiting for something more.

"Father… let this strengthen my resolve," Lozar whispered.

He pressed the blade to his palm and let his blood flow. Silver-tinged droplets stained the Valyrian steel, turning black as they dripped onto the fire.

The moment his blood met the flames, the fire inhaled like a living thing—and then it erupted.

A tidal wave of heat swallowed the chamber, flames licking at the stone walls.

Ben-Durro's face was a mask of rapture as he stepped into the inferno, his body unscathed by the fire.

Then came the darkness.

Lozar felt as if he had been plunged into a sea of ink. The world around him vanished.

And without warning, light exploded all around him.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding brilliance.

Then, music.

Grand, sweeping notes that filled the air like the echoes of a thousand hands strumming unseen strings.

The melody deepened, resonating with a power that seeped into his bones.

Lozar walked forward, guided by instinct alone.

Grasslands flourished. Forests stretched skyward.

In the vast green sea of trees, small figures with emerald skin wandered, their golden eyes gleaming. Mountains rose, clawing at the sky.

The music shifted.

A river broke through the forest, vast and unyielding, carrying the song with it. In the waters, an enormous turtle sang as it swam, its voice deep and ancient.

By the riverbanks, horned figures built cities and tilled the land.

Lozar frowned.

Was this… history?

A shadowy figure beside him lifted a hammer, striking down with force.

Sparks flew.

The music surged.

Half the world burned. The other half was frozen in silence, locked in eternal cold.

Lozar moved faster, sensing an unseen terror closing in.

Figures passed him—kings, lords, warriors.

Some had pearl-like eyes. Others, gemstone irises of emerald, sapphire, and topaz.

Two alone stood apart.

One had eyes of deep amethyst and watched him with a knowing gaze. The other, with blood-red irises, gazed up at the sky.

The stars above shuddered, writhing as though they were alive.

From them, flesh and madness were born.

A man raised a sword of living flame. A soft melody began to play—but it was quickly drowned by the rising crescendo of the song.

The amethyst-eyed figure shattered into countless dragons, their wings unfurling like banners in the storm. Some flew toward the screaming stars. Others plunged into the frozen wasteland.

Then—

An explosion.

The sky tore apart.

A ruined battlefield stretched before him. Amidst the rubble, two silver dragons danced.

Lozar barely had time to react before one of them turned, its massive wings sending a gust of wind through his hair.

I'm flying.

His hands instinctively gripped the ridges beneath him.

West.

The realization hit him.

I'm flying west.

Below, rolling plains stretched endlessly.

A graveyard of steel swords sprawled across the land, where six massive dragon corpses lay. One, a mere hatchling, had been decapitated outside the field. Another, larger but rotting, drifted at its edge.

Hunters drew their bows. A distant tower burned. Roses blossomed unseen, hiding in the shadows.

A direwolf howled in the North. A trout fell, another took its place.

High above, a weirwood tree stood tall as crows pecked at a stag's eyes.

The sun dipped lower, a red comet streaking through the sky.

The gates of a fortress slammed shut, sealing the last rays of light away.

A green dragon bled into the fire.

An eagle fell from the clouds, struck by lightning.

Dragons rose into the sky, only to plummet back down.

Dragon's blood scattered across the land, giving birth to life.

A crowned beast drifted across the waves.

The silver dragon still soared.

Then, at last, Lozar saw it—a great wall of ice.

And beyond it, a pair of glowing blue eyes.

The vision collapsed.

Lozar found himself staring at the dying embers.

A voice, one only he could hear, whispered:

"Go east. To conquer the east, you must first go west."

"Go west. To await the song of ice and fire's final verse."

"The silver dragon and the stars. The flames and the cold. Smoke and salt. Go now—await your fate."

Lozar exhaled.

"Riddles and prophecy," he muttered. "I never had much patience for either."

But at least it meant he was on the right path.

The fire had died, yet Malahar's body remained.

Lozar dropped to his knees beside him, helping Ben-Durro lift the burned priest.

Ben-Durro did not hesitate—he pressed his lips to Malahar's charred face, and a burst of fire engulfed him.

Malahar's eyes snapped open. "Did it work?" His lips cracked, his voice barely a whisper.

Lozar nodded.

A drop of silver blood fell from his palm.

Flames rekindled around Malahar's form, and his flesh slowly began to regrow.

Ben-Durro sighed. "The Lord of Light has returned his soul. But without your blood, my lord, I would have revived only a corpse."

Lozar's gaze hardened. "Then you withheld the truth from me, didn't you, Ben-Durro?"

The old priest smiled. "A necessary sacrifice."

And the visions had only just begun.