The Dothraki horde of a thousand riders thundered across the barren expanse of the Red Wastes, their horses kicking up clouds of dust as they approached a sight that none of them expected. Khal Qoros rode at the head, his bloodriders flanking him, all frowning in confusion. Before them stood something that had never been there before—a house, gleaming like a mirage in the midst of desolation, surrounded by a lush garden and a sparkling pool.
"This is impossible," muttered one of the bloodriders, his eyes wide. "We have ridden through this land before. Nothing lives here."
Khal Qoros narrowed his eyes, his suspicion growing. He had heard whispers of strange things in the deep Wastes, but a house—an oasis—so far into the lifeless desert? It defied all logic. The Red Wastes devoured everything, and yet this house stood untouched, as if nature itself bent to its will.
As the Dothraki drew closer, the large wooden doors of the house swung open. From the threshold stepped two figures—a man and a woman, both blonde-haired, their beauty unnatural and otherworldly. The man held a silver stick in his hand, something the Dothraki had never seen before. It gleamed in the sunlight like a weapon, though it looked unlike any blade or club they had encountered. The woman, equally striking, held a glass of some strange liquid in one hand—a delicate drink that shimmered in her grip—and in her other hand, a silver stick like the man's.
Mark and Clara stepped forward, strolling casually to the edge of the garden where the grass abruptly ended and the cracked, dry earth of the Red Wastes began. Mark inhaled deeply, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Beautiful weather today, don't you think?" he said, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the wind.
Clara, taking a delicate sip of her champagne, nodded in agreement, though her steps were slightly tipsy. "Oh, indeed, my dear. But you know... it could be even more beautiful," she added with a lilt to her voice, "if these Dothraki were to leave."
Her tone was sweet, but the insult was clear. The riders bristled, their faces twisting in rage at being addressed with such condescension. Khal Qoros growled, his hand gripping the reins of his horse tightly. No one insulted the Dothraki, least of all a man and woman who dared to stand before them with such arrogance.
Without another word, the Khal gave a signal, and he and his bloodriders charged forward, their horses kicking up dirt as they sped toward Mark and Clara. The riders raised their arakhs, ready to strike these strangers down where they stood.
But before they could even close the distance, something happened.
In an instant, the charging riders disintegrated, their bodies turning to ash mid-gallop, their weapons falling to the ground as the wind from the Wastes carried their remains away, scattering them across the desert like dust.
Mark and Clara didn't flinch. Clara took another sip of her champagne, her expression as unbothered as ever. "Well," she said lightly, "that's that, then."
The remaining Dothraki stared in horror, their horses skidding to a halt. They had witnessed sorcery before, but never anything like this. The Khal and his bloodriders were gone—reduced to nothing more than ash in the wind. Panic spread through the horde. Magic of this kind was dangerous, unknowable, and in their culture, to face it was to court death.
One rider let out a terrified cry, and the horde began to scatter, galloping away in all directions, desperate to escape the cursed place. They fled, not caring where they went, so long as it was far from the house and the two impossibly beautiful strangers who wielded powers beyond their understanding.
As the dust settled and the Dothraki disappeared into the horizon, Mark turned to Clara with a satisfied nod. "Well, that worked."
Clara laughed softly, her glass still half-full. "You always did handle situations with such... efficiency." She glanced at the empty space where the riders had once been and shrugged. "Though I did rather enjoy having a bit of an audience."
The house returned to its calm state, the Red Wastes stretching endlessly around it, as if nothing had happened. But whispers began to spread from the scattered Dothraki. In taverns and camps, merchants and travelers spoke of a place deep in the Wastes, guarded by a dangerously magical man and woman. They told tales of a house that appeared where nothing should grow, a house where even the fierce Dothraki horde dared not enter. The riders who approached were turned to ash in the wind, and now, even the bravest feared to venture too close.
The story spread like wildfire, gaining new details with each telling. Some said the house was cursed, others that the man and woman were gods, or perhaps demons. But all agreed on one thing: there was a place in the Red Wastes where death came swiftly to anyone foolish enough to challenge its guardians.
And so, the legend of the house in the Wastes grew, passed on in hushed tones by those who had heard of its power, a reminder that some things in this world—no matter how beautiful—were not to be trifled with.