118: Chapter 118 Untitled

White Mane looked down at the black silk scarf on her wrist. The edges of the scarf were already frayed—Daenerys had worn it for a long time and washed it many times. The black had faded to a deep gray, and there was a nearly invisible pinhole worn through by chains.

The hand tied with the silk scarf clenched into a fist; she didn't refuse. Then she looked up and asked Daenerys a question she had never asked before.

“After the war. If the iron throne is taken, the White Walkers are defeated, and Westeros is pacified—most of the Dothraki will return to the other side of the sea. I am the daughter of their Khal. Logically, I should go back too.”

“But the Brand is on the back of my neck; this is a dragon's contract, not a Dothraki one. After the war, his dragon nest—where will it be?”

Daenerys sat down on a stone platform at the edge of the training ground.

Her purple eyes gazed at the distant sea, where the setting sun burned the water into molten gold. Her voice was calm and sincere, without any diplomatic beating around the bush.

“Drogon probably wants to build the dragon nest on the Dragonstone mineral veins. He says there’s the most dragonglass there, and it’s close to the treasury. I didn’t agree with him.”

“Because if the iron throne is in King's Landing—the dragon nest should be in King's Landing. House Targaryen's dragon shouldn't be too far from the Red Keep. But the Brand between you and him is mutual. If you return to the Dothraki Sea—the Brand will be stretched very far. It might still fluctuate between hot and cold.”

White Mane fell silent. She held the old scabbard up to her eyes, looking at the stitches she had sewn herself. Seventeen stitches: nine on the left, eight on the right, one was crooked. Then she sheathed the sword back at her waist, her voice flat but every word carrying her unique certainty.

“Then I will stay here. Not because he bit me—but because the volcanic rock of the Dragonstone training ground causes less wear on horseshoes. My cavalry needs this.”

The corner of Daenerys’s mouth curled into a faint arc. She didn't expose her excuse about 'horseshoe wear'.

“Fine. After the war, next to the dragon nest on Dragonstone, I’ll leave a room for you that can fit the dragon-kiss sword.”

3:00 AM. King's Landing. Tyrell Mansion wine cellar.

The wine cellar had been reorganized by Margaery’s handmaid, Ella. Several empty wine barrels had been moved to the corner, and the dust that once covered them had been wiped clean.

A camp bed was covered with green velvet sheets in the Highgarden style, and a small sprig of golden rose lay on the pillow—placed there by Margaery herself, a drop of water still clinging to the stem.

A Dragonglass Lamp hung on the wall, dimmed to its lowest setting, just enough to see the room's outline. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine and oak, with a faint hint of goat's milk.

Drogon, Tyrion, and Sansa entered the wine cellar through a secret door in the mansion's backyard.

Ella was already waiting inside, holding a pot of hot goat's milk. The steam from the milk drifted into a fine white mist in the dim light of the Dragonglass Lamp, winding its way upward. Sansa’s cloak was still stained with lime powder from the secret passage.

Margaery Tyrell herself stood at the corner of the cellar stairs. She wore a dark green casual dress, her brown curls loosely gathered behind her head, without any golden rose jewelry.

She held a cup of hot goat's milk in her hand. When she saw Sansa walk in wrapped in her cloak, she handed the milk over. The movement was incredibly natural, as if Sansa were merely returning from a long journey.

“The guest rooms in the mansion aren't very safe—Cersei’s Gold Cloaks might come to check at any time. But they don't check the wine cellar. This is my grandmother’s territory. You stay here for the night.”

“Before dawn, I’ll have someone clear out the east wing—there’s a window there with a view of the sea. There aren't many rooms in this city where you can see the sea.”

Sansa took the goat's milk. Cupping the mug in both hands, her deep blue eyes looked at Margaery.

She remembered this smile—back then in King's Landing, Margaery had smiled just like this as she pinned her rose brooch to Sansa’s dress, saying, 'We are friends.' At that time, Sansa thought it was another trap from House Lannister.

Only later did she realize Margaery hadn't escaped the Lannister betrothals either—she was promised to Joffrey, and then Joffrey died; she was promised to Tommen, and then was locked in the Great Sept of Baelor by Cersei, nearly blown apart by wildfire.

“Thank you. You are the only person who hasn't asked for a reward after helping me.”

The corner of Margaery’s mouth turned up in a smile very similar to the Queen of Thorns, but gentler.

“That’s because I haven't decided what I want yet. When I do—maybe I’ll ask you to embroider a wedding dress for me.”

“House Stark’s needlework is said to be better than Highgarden’s. That’s what Grandmother said. She never praises anyone—the last time she praised an embroideress, that woman had been dead for sixty years.”

Sansa looked down at the goat's milk in her cup. The steam blurred her eyelashes. She turned the cup, watching a thin white layer of milk coat the sides.

“...Next time, you can have her praise me. The wolves I embroider look even better than the roses.”

After Ella and Margaery went upstairs, only Tyrion, Sansa, and Drogon remained in the cellar. Sansa sat on the camp bed, warming her hands with the goat's milk.

Tyrion sat on an empty wine barrel opposite her, his short cane leaning against the side. Drogon stood at the foot of the stairs, leaning against a wine rack with his arms crossed—he was waiting for dawn, after which he would fly back to Dragonstone. The remaining time for his full human form was less than twelve hours.

Sansa looked up. For the first time, her deep blue eyes looked at Drogon seriously and for a long duration. It wasn't an assessment or fear, but a Stark identifying whether the other was a direwolf-level ally—that instinct her father had taught her, to judge from a person’s stance and gaze whether they could fight side-by-side in winter.

“Tyrion says you are a dragon. You helped me not because I am a Stark—but because your mother wants an alliance with my brother. Right?”

“Mostly right. A small part—Tyrion didn't want you to be married off again. He is my ally. When an ally’s ex-wife wants to escape a marriage, I handle the perimeter security. It’s not politics. It’s a division of labor.”

Sansa lowered her eyes. The steam from the goat's milk blurred her face. She was silent for a moment, then spoke, her voice half a notch softer than before, but every word was clear.

“The first time I escaped King's Landing, Baelish was the one who took me. He married me to Ramsay Bolton. After Ramsay died, he wanted to marry me off again.”

“My whole life I’ve been treated as a tool for marriage—a daughter of House Stark, a daughter-in-law of House Lannister, a bride of House Bolton, a pawn of Baelish.”

“Tonight, I climbed out the window myself. No one carried me. No one climbed for me. You helped me—but I walked out that door on my own feet.”

Drogon’s vertical pupils shimmered with a faint dark-gold light in the shadows of the stairway—invisible in full human form, but Sansa seemed to sense something; her gaze lingered on his face for a moment.

He looked at this young woman who had just escaped from Littlefinger’s hands. She was younger than Margaery and more fragile than White Mane, but her back was held much straighter than when she was in the Red Keep—not the straightness required by noble etiquette, but a straightness rising from her very bones.

“Your window-climbing technique is decent. The rose bushes only left one scratch. Next time you jump out a window—remember to find your landing spot first. You fell the first time you jumped, so you remembered the safe landing spot the second time. That’s combat experience.”

“You’ve turned escaping marriage into a tactic. Women of House Stark—Miss Sansa, you and your sister Arya are likely of the same bloodline.”

Sansa looked up, staring directly into those deep brown eyes that still faintly glinted with dark gold even in full human form. The corners of her mouth curled slightly—it was her first smile in this conversation, tiny, but not out of politeness.

“Arya would like your tail. Ever since she was little, she’s wanted to keep a beast other than a direwolf.”