120: Chapter 120 Eye Contact Before the Trial

White Mane took her first step forward. The volcanic rock beneath her feet made an incredibly faint scraping sound—it wasn't the sound of gravel being crushed, but rather the minute pores on the surface of the volcanic rock being compressed by the soles of her boots.

The dragon-kiss sword in her hand traced the first strike of a continuous slashing sequence. The morning light reflected off the blade, drawing a silver line across the training grounds. The second strike followed immediately, a feint aimed at Drogon's left wing. The tip of the sword traced a tiny arc in the air, intentionally missing by half an inch—it was her feinting pattern, the trajectory of the sword tip leaving a fleeting silver arc in the morning light. Then she stepped forward with her left foot, preparing for a backhand thrust.

But on the third beat—before the backhand thrust—there was that extremely subtle half-beat pause, known only to her, as she adjusted her center of gravity. The tip of her toe tapped the volcanic rock ever so lightly.

The blade in her hand tilted slightly at an angle, a difference in inertia caused by the dragon-kiss sword being lighter than a curved blade—the center of gravity was further back, and the backhand thrust required a longer torque adjustment.

Drogon's left wing lifted slightly. That pause allowed him to read the angle of her backhand thrust in advance. The scales at the edge of his dragon wing brushed against the tip of the dragon-kiss sword, missing by less than half an inch.

The airflow from the sword tip left a faint chill on his scales, a sensation like a razor-thin blade of ice sliding across the surface. It didn't cut through, but it caused the dark gold patterns on the edge of the scales to flicker slightly.

White Mane didn't stop. After the backhand thrust missed, she immediately followed up with a mounted throat-stab with her dagger—she wasn't actually mounted, of course, but she simulated the angle of a mounted attack with the low-stance assault unique to the Dothraki.

Her knees bent slightly, her center of gravity sank, and her entire body was almost pressed to the ground. Her left hand drew a backup dagger strapped to her calf. As she stabbed, her body naturally leaned to the left—she was right-handed, the dagger was in her right hand, and her center of gravity shifted left.

Drogon's dragon tail swept out from the right, wrapping around her waist.

It wasn't a real pull, just a very light touch. When the tip of the tail touched the leather armor at her side, her left-leaning center of gravity was slightly thrown off by the dragon tail from the right. The dagger missed its mark, the tip of the blade tracing an empty arc in the morning light.

The tip of the tail lingered at her waist for less than half a second, the temperature of the scales transmitting through the leather armor—it was warm, not the searing heat of Dragon Breath, but the synchronized warmth of the Brand.

White Mane sheathed the dagger. Then she raised the dragon-kiss sword high and performed a straight thrust.

The sword tip remained perfectly steady in the air, thrusting toward the dragon's head. She stopped the tip a foot away from the bridge of his nose. She pointed the scabbard at his vertical pupil—that old scabbard, with cracked leather and seventeen stitches: nine on the left and eight on the right, with one stitch crooked. The leather cord was a lighter color than the old leather in the morning light, and that crooked stitch looked like a tiny scar.

"The scabbard. The old one. During the trial, if it turns into a new one—don't hesitate."

A system pop-up appeared. White text.

"Domination Brand calibration complete.

Illyse White-Mane's three-pattern weaknesses have been deepened from the memory layer to the physical instinct layer through face-to-face sparring. The host's accuracy in identifying the fake White Mane during the trial has increased from eighty-nine percent to ninety-seven percent.

The remaining three percent uncertainty comes from unknown changes that may exist within the trial itself—but calibration is complete, and the Brand status is fully synchronized. Brand temperature: Stable warmth."

Drogon folded his wings. The wing membranes made a very faint rustling sound as they folded, like countless dragon scales rubbing together—it was the sound of the fine scales on the edge of the wing membranes touching each other as they retracted.

He lowered his dragon head, his vertical pupils level with White Mane's amber eyes. His Dragon Breath carried the smell of King's Landing soot and the dragon-glass dust of the mineral veins. The exhaled airflow was extremely light, as if he were afraid of blowing away the stray hairs on her forehead dampened by sweat.

The air swirled slightly above her brow, causing a few strands of silver-white hair to sway gently before settling down.

"The scabbard. Remember it. The old one. Three places where the stitching is uneven. You're more ruthless than the Storm Ancestor Dragon—how hard did you work on your own stitching to make it look that ragged?"

"I didn't make it ragged. It was already this ragged. You owe me a scabbard—give it to me after the trial is over."

She sheathed her sword. She untied the black silk scarf Daenerys had tied around her left wrist and wrapped it around the hilt of the dragon-kiss sword. The scarf went around the hilt three times, pressed tight by her fingers.

The frayed threads at the edge of the scarf looked exceptionally soft against the dark silver luster of the hilt—the black had faded to a deep gray, almost merging into the same tone as the dark silver hilt. Then she turned and walked toward the edge of the training grounds, throwing back one last sentence without looking.

"The bones in the Mineral Vein Chamber are waiting for you. They're cursing you. I can feel it—the Brand is still hot. Let them curse. Once you enter the chamber, they won't be able to curse anymore."

Drogon's vertical pupils followed her back until she reached the low wall at the edge of the training grounds, leaned the dragon-kiss sword against the wall, flipped herself up to sit on the wall, and sat cross-legged facing him. Her amber eyes blinked once in the morning light.

She raised her hand to press the Brand on the back of her neck, then gave him a slight nod of her chin—go on. Dragon Perception captured the last trace of emotional signals from her Brand: not worry, but urgency.

The Mineral Vein Chamber. After dawn.

The dragon-glass pillars pulsed with a faint, ghostly blue light in the darkness, the frequency of the pulse synchronized with Drogon's heartbeat—as he approached the chamber, the pillars began to accelerate.

Drogon entered the chamber in his dragon-man form. His tail swayed slowly behind him, and his vertical pupils glowed with a dark gold light in the gloom.

The rib fossils of the Storm Ancestor Dragon were still embedded next to the dragon-glass pillars in Orys's chamber—but their state was more unstable than when he had last left. The golden patterns on the fossil surface flickered on their own in the darkness, each flicker accompanied by a faint low growl. It wasn't a vibration in the air, but something transmitted directly into his consciousness through bloodline resonance.

It was angry. It knew he was coming. For thousands of years, no living dragon had ever dared to face it and absorb it—those dragon kings only treated it as a relic, locked away beneath Storms End; only this young dragon, whose bloodline was less than half of its own, dared to move it into the Mineral Vein Chamber, sit before it, and prepare to devour it.

He sat cross-legged in front of the fossil. He folded his wings and coiled his tail in front of him. The ice spike at the tip of his tail glinted with a ghostly blue cold light in the dim chamber.

The residual will of the Storm Ancestor Dragon formed several images in his mind—White Mane's face, the image of her riding on him, the scorching sun outside Yunkai. The starting stance of her continuous slashing, the trajectory of the sword tip flashing in the sunlight. The details of her old scabbard, the locations of the cracked leather, the stitches of the sewing.

It was flaunting the data it had read, trying to shake his confidence before he even began the trial. These images were replayed by it repeatedly, like a meticulously edited slideshow.

Drogon watched those images slide through his consciousness. White Mane's face was drenched in sweat under the scorching Yunkai sun, her amber eyes reflecting the cold glint of a dagger.

The angle of her body leaning left when she was mounted on him—the center of gravity was off by less than three fingers' width. That extremely light tap of her toe before the backhand thrust—that almost inaudible friction on the volcanic rock.

He suddenly understood the Storm Ancestor Dragon's tactic: it wasn't using these images to scare him; it was using them to distract him. It wanted him to repeatedly rehearse the battle with "her" in his mind before the trial began, so that when he actually saw "her" in the trial, his reaction would be half a beat slow. Because he would have already fought her too many times in his head.

"You use her face to scare me. You use her moves to break me. You use her scabbard to deceive me. But you missed one thing—you can't read why I recognize that scabbard."

His tail traced a circle extremely slowly behind him. The ice spike at the tip scraped across the ground, leaving a very thin white mark.

"That scabbard was sewn by her own hand. There are three lines of stitching where the leather is cracked, and every single one is old. She doesn't refuse to change to a new scabbard because no one gives her a new one—it's because she's used to the old one.

Being used to it means—she trusts that old scabbard, just as she trusts her curved blade. You don't understand trust. That's why you will definitely use a new scabbard."

The rib fossil suddenly erupted with even more intense flickering. The golden patterns pulsed like a heartbeat, each pulse illuminating the chamber brightly—bright enough to see every single scratch on the stone walls. It was furious.

To be seen through by a young dragon with less than half its bloodline regarding something it couldn't understand—it didn't understand why a Dothraki woman would treat a ragged scabbard with seventeen stitches as a memento;

It didn't understand why this kind of trust could allow a dragon to recognize a fake at a glance in a trial. It only knew storms, it only knew devouring, it only knew the loneliness that had never been challenged for thousands of years.

A system pop-up appeared. Golden text.

"Storm Ancestor Dragon Will Trial is about to begin. During the trial, the host will lose all connection with the outside world—including blood bond resonance and the Domination Brand.

Estimated duration of the trial: Approximately one hour in external time; internal time cannot be estimated. Please concentrate your consciousness, host. Passing will increase bloodline by four hundred. Failing will increase bloodline by one hundred, but destructive desire will be permanently increased by ten percent. Is the host ready?"

"Begin."

He closed his vertical pupils.

The rib fossil of the Storm Ancestor Dragon suddenly erupted into a pillar of light where blinding gold and ice blue intertwined.

The golden light came from the fossil itself—it was the residual will energy of the Ancestor Dragon, which had not dissipated for thousands of years, having been repeatedly tempered by storms beneath Storms End.

The ice blue light came from the storm memories sealed within the fossil—the never-ending hurricanes on the cliffs of Storms End, every gust of wind having been swallowed into its bones and stored for thousands of years.

The two pillars of light intertwined and clashed, like two giant dragons tearing at each other in the void—the golden light wanted to swallow the ice blue, and the ice blue wanted to freeze the golden light. The pillars of light engulfed Drogon entirely.

His dragon-man form's silhouette gradually blurred within the light, and the dark gold patterns on his scales were stretched by the light pillars into countless thin golden threads, like a spiderweb being pulled apart.

The dragon-glass pillars in the chamber vibrated slightly in the light, and the runes of Orys Targaryen on the pillars lit up automatically, row after row, from the base to the top.

The runes arranged themselves into a sentence—'May the light of the Ancestor Dragon protect you.' Every Old Valyria letter burned with a warm dark gold in the darkness, not the blinding gold of the light pillars, but an older, gentler gold, like the embers of a hearth fire.

The light pillars slowly retracted, like the tide receding into the crevices of a reef.

Drogon's dragon-man form remained sitting cross-legged in place, wings folded, tail still, and vertical pupils tightly closed.

But his breathing became extremely slow and deep, every rise and fall of his chest accompanied by the brightening and dimming of the runes on the dragon-glass pillars—the runes dimmed when he exhaled and brightened when he inhaled. He was no longer in this chamber. His consciousness had been pulled into the trial domain of the Storm Ancestor Dragon.

Outside the chamber.

Melisandre stood in the mineral vein passage, her red robes faintly glowing with the residual light of nightfire in the darkness.

She placed the holy brazier in her hand at the entrance of the chamber, the blue-green flames burning steadily within—the flames did not flicker, remaining completely still, as if frozen in time. Her red eyes looked through the flames at the shrinking ball of light within the chamber.

White Mane sensed through the Brand that Drogon's consciousness had detached from the physical dimension. Her finger pressing on the Brand at the back of her neck tightened slightly, then released.

The temperature of the Brand dropped to 'slightly warm' at that moment—it wasn't cold, but it felt lighter, like a burden being gently set down. She sat on the low wall of the training grounds, the dragon-kiss sword laid across her knees, the end of the black silk scarf on the hilt fluttering ever so lightly in the morning breeze.

Daenerys suddenly opened her eyes in her bedchamber—the other end of the blood bond resonance was no longer the familiar heartbeat and emotional fluctuations, but a vast, ancient sound of whistling wind that did not belong to this world.

It was the wind on the cliffs of Storms End, the wind of the First Era, the final breath of the Ancestor Dragon that had swallowed stars thousands of years ago. She sat up, pressing her purple flame stone ring tightly against the consort mark on her chest, her purple eyes looking toward the direction of the mineral veins.

The trial had begun.