119: Chapter 119 Heartbeats in the Blood Alliance

Dragonstone Castle.

Daenerys's bedchamber. Before dawn.

Daenerys woke from a light sleep. The spouse mark on her chest was transmitting a series of steady, clear signals—not of danger, nor of fatigue, but a sense of satisfaction after completing a goal, mixed with a preliminary approval of someone newly met.

That girl's window-climbing technique is decent. This was the thought flashing through Drogon's mind at that moment, transmitted vaguely into her consciousness through the blood bond.

She sat up. Her long silver-gold hair draped over her shoulders, glowing warmly under the faint light of the Dragonglass Lamp.

She gave her purple flame stone ring a turn in the morning light and silently touched the mark with her lips—it was a private gesture unique to the two of them, not a formal blood bond signal, but more like a habitual confirmation, like touching a wedding ring in the dark.

“Rescued. The daughter of House Stark. He's currently arguing with Tyrion about Sansa's route to Dragonstone—Tyrion advocates for a boat, he advocates for flying. His heartbeat quickened slightly when he argued for flying; he probably wants to show off his dragon wings. Idiot.”

She unfurled the map of Westeros by her bedside. The parchment made a soft rustling sound under her fingertips.

She drew a line between King's Landing and Dragonstone, labeling it with the name 'Sansa Stark' beside it. The handwriting was hers, the strokes slender but steady—a skill she had honed during her exile, capable of writing even on horseback.

Then she drew a wolf's head at the location of the North and drew another line from Dragonstone pointing toward it. She was already discussing the departure date of the Northern delegation with Jorah.

Five o'clock in the morning. The underground wine cellar of the Tyrell Mansion.

Tyrion dozed for a while on an empty wine barrel, his short cane nearly sliding off his knees. He reached out to catch the handle at the last moment, then rubbed his eyes.

Sansa was sleeping lightly on a cot, covered by that Highgarden wool cloak. The cloak was so large it enveloped her entirely, leaving only a small lock of red hair spread across the green velvet pillow—red hair and a green pillow, Stark and Tyrell, looking like a painting in the dim light of the Dragonglass Lamp.

Drogon did not sleep.

He sat at the top of the stairs all night, placing the bag of dragonglass fragments from his waist onto his knees, checking the purity of each piece one by one with Ice Element—the Ice Element at his fingertips touched the surface of the fragments with minimal flow, and the fragments emitted a faint ghostly blue light upon contact, each flashing once before going dark.

This was a habit he had developed on Dragonstone: he had to have something to count while on watch. There were forty-three fragments in total, and he counted them three times. Forty-three the first time, forty-three the second, and still forty-three the third.

Tyrion woke up and rubbed his eyes. He saw Drogon counting dragonglass fragments, a smile that was half-mocking and half-envious appearing at the corners of his mouth.

“You know, a dragon's eyes glow when they count gold coins. You're in full human form now without slit pupils, but I bet your pupils have dilated.”

“My eyes don't glow. These fragments are for staying alert, not gold coins.”

“What's the difference to you? Shiny, edible, or sellable—it's all 'yours'.”

Drogon did not answer. He put the dragonglass fragments back into the leather pouch, stood up, and stretched his shoulders, which were stiff from sitting for so long.

In full human form, the shoulder blades lacked the muscle support from the base of the dragon wings; maintaining a posture for too long would result in soreness. He had less than twelve hours left in his full human form and had to return to Dragonstone to switch forms before tonight.

“Is the route for Sansa to Dragonstone decided?”

“It's decided. A smuggler's ship. Still that one from House Tyrell.

Departing from King's Landing harbor at high tide the day after tomorrow, bypassing the reefs on the north side of Dragonstone, arriving at dusk.

Taking a boat is a bit slower than being carried by you while flying—but she said she doesn't want to be 'carried' anywhere by anyone anymore. Including dragons. Her exact words were, 'I've been carried too many times.'”

Drogon was silent. Then he gave a slight nod—not of agreement, but of understanding.

“Then the boat it is. I'll fly back first. Tell her—the castle on Dragonstone has many windows. The kind that look out to the sea. They aren't like the one Margaery mentioned—outside the windows of Dragonstone is a volcano. At night, the lava reflects on the sea, brighter than the lights of King's Landing.”

Dragonstone. Dawn. Volcanic Crater Platform.

The day had just broken.

The steam rising from the crater was dyed pale gold by the morning light, the steam pillars tilting slightly in the sea breeze.

The towers of Dragonstone Castle glinted with the cold light of obsidian in the dawn, and the three-headed dragon banners snapped in the morning wind, the corners of the flags whipping the air with sounds like wings flapping.

Illyse White Mane stood alone in the center of the training grounds. She held the dragon-kiss sword in her right hand, and Daenerys's black silk scarf was tied around her left wrist. The scarf fluttered gently in the morning breeze, its edges already frayed—the longest frayed thread traced extremely fine circles in the wind.

She had been practicing her swordsmanship for half an hour, fine sweat seeping from her forehead, but the Brand on the back of her neck remained at a steady "warm" temperature—ever since the Cremation Array was dismantled, the Brand had never fluctuated between hot and cold again.

The sound of dragon wings cutting through the air came from the sky.

It was no longer the sound of human footsteps in full human form, but a black dragon with a thirty-four-meter wingspan descending from the horizon. His wings, when unfurled, blocked the dawning sun, shrouding the entire training ground in dark golden shadows—sunlight filtered through the translucent edges of the wing membranes, casting patterns on the ground like a dense network of blood vessels.

The scales on the edges of the dragon wings shimmered with a blend of dark gold and ice blue in the morning light. As the wingtips sliced through the air, the airflow was torn into two translucent ripples that spread to the sides, like two stones thrown into water.

He folded his wings and landed on the volcanic rock platform at the eastern end of the training grounds. His dragon claws gripped the rock surface, the volcanic rock crumbling slightly beneath them, and tiny fragments of obsidian splintered along the cracks, shimmering with a dark green light in the dawn.

The dragon's head turned toward Illyse White Mane, his dark gold slit pupils constricting slightly in the morning light. The flicker of ghostly blue Ice Fire deep within his pupils was a fraction brighter than when he left—it was a mark condensed in his pupils after his Ice Element proficiency crossed a hidden threshold, a trace left by the precise temperature control of the Ice Element in the wildfire chamber of King's Landing.

Illyse White Mane did not lower her dragon-kiss sword. She pointed the tip of the blade at him, the opening stance being the first move of a continuous slash followed by a backhand thrust—the sword tip was tilted half an inch toward his left wing; the feint had already begun.

Her amber eyes flashed with provocative light in the dawn, but a very faint curve appeared at the corner of her mouth. She did not use the common tongue, but spoke in the dothraki language.

“You're late. Are the taverns in King's Landing better for sleeping than the training grounds of Dragonstone?”

Drogon's roar contained clear words in the dothraki language, every syllable carrying the guttural vibration unique to the dragon race; that vibration transmitted through the air, causing the Brand on the back of Illyse White Mane's neck to resonate slightly.

“Didn't sleep. Was counting dragonglass in the King's Landing underground. Now come—let me see if that hesitation of yours is still there.”

Illyse White Mane tilted her sword tip slightly, the curve at the corner of her mouth deepening.

“It is. Come and take it.”