126: Chapter 126 Reconciliation

Afternoon. The port of Dragonstone. The sun was blazing, turning the sea into a blinding silver-white—every crest of the waves looked as if it had been plated with tin.

The smuggling ship of House Tyrell slowly docked. The sails were made of grayish-brown dyed linen, with several unevenly dyed stripes across the surface—that was the work of the Dothraki, who had dyed them in a hurry with uneven dye.

The gangplank was lowered, and Sansa Stark walked off the ship alone. No handmaidens, no guards, just a young woman in a grey dress and a thick cloak, her feet stepping onto the black sand of Dragonstone.

She wore that grey wool dress with the tear from the rose bushes—Margaery had helped her mend it before departure, using Highgarden green thread, creating an inconspicuous yet elegant trim against the grey skirt.

On her feet were the old leather boots Tyrion had given her; the soles were worn thin, but the old leather on the uppers was polished clean. Over her shoulders was a Highgarden wool cloak. Her deep blue eyes looked out at the black sand beach, the volcanic crater, and the dragon-shaped towers of Dragonstone—it was completely different from the snowy winters of the North, but just as biting, just as hard.

The sea breeze blew her red hair, obscuring half of her face.

Daenerys Targaryen stood on the harbor pier waiting for her.

The two young women locked eyes for a moment—one, the Mother of Dragons exiled overseas; the other, a direwolf who had been used as a tool for marriage alliances several times but had never broken. The sunlight cast a long, narrow shadow between them.

Daenerys spoke first. She did not say "Welcome" or "You have suffered." What she said was:

"The mission to the North departs in three days. Your brother's camp is south of the Fist of the First Men. Do you want to go north with the mission, or stay on Dragonstone and reunite with your brother after the war? Whichever you choose, I will arrange it."

Sansa did not answer immediately. She wrapped her cloak tighter, her gaze lingering for a moment between the dragon-shaped towers and the volcanic crater of Dragonstone. Then she turned to Daenerys, the hesitation in her deep blue eyes lasting less than a second.

"Go north. But not with the mission. My brother needs to know the city defense deployments of King's Landing—the rotation times of the Gold Cloaks, the weaknesses of the Red Keep, and that Cersei's wildfire is no longer effective. I am the only one who can provide this intelligence. I must deliver it to him personally."

A flash of approval flickered in Daenerys's purple eyes. She reached out and placed a dragon-glass pillar amulet—not a piece of jewelry, but a rough shard containing a trace of bloodline protective energy—into Sansa's palm. The edges of the amulet were unpolished, still in the raw shape as it had been mined.

"This is dragon-glass. The White Walkers fear it. Keep it with you on your way to the North."

Sansa closed her palm, pressing the amulet to her chest. She gave a slight nod—not the bow of a subject to a queen, but the gratitude of a daughter of the North to another woman who had experienced war.

"About your brother—I have heard. Rhaegar Targaryen. He died at the hands of Robert. My father felt guilty about this his whole life. He did not kill Rhaegar himself—but he felt that his presence alone was a sin.

After the war—if you need House Stark to guarantee the Targaryen succession rights in the North, I will persuade my brother."

Daenerys was silent. A moment later, she reached out a finger and gently stroked the Highgarden green stitching on Sansa's cloak. Her voice was very low, low enough that only the two of them could hear.

"You just said your father felt guilty his whole life. My father was The Mad King. He burned your grandfather and uncle. Dying in Robert's Rebellion was what he deserved.

I am not here for revenge—I am here to end the ruins created by House Targaryen itself. You and your brother—you can hate the name Targaryen. But please don't hate me. I have never burned anyone."

Sansa's deep blue eyes looked directly into Daenerys's purple eyes.

She was silent for a long time—long enough for the waves to crash against the pier several times. Then, she showed her the Highgarden green stitching on her cloak and traced an arc along the line with her finger.

"I know you haven't. Drogon told me—you used your own body to block an ice spear for him on the walls of Meereen. A queen who would block a spear for a dragon would not burn people."

Daenerys's finger stopped on the Highgarden green stitching on Sansa's cloak. Her fingertips trembled slightly—not from the cold, but from a sudden, unexpected softness at being comforted by a Stark using the very needlework she was best at. She moved her finger away from the stitching, her voice returning to a steady tone.

"Departing in three days. It's cold on the road. If the cloak isn't thick enough, my handmaiden can add a layer of Dragonstone black wool lining for you."

"No need. This cloak was given by Tyrion. The wool is from Highgarden, and the stitching is Margaery's. Adding another layer—it wouldn't be this cloak anymore."

Daenerys's purple eyes lingered on Sansa's face for a moment. Then she nodded slightly. She turned and walked toward the castle. After a few steps, she stopped and added, without looking back.

"Your window-climbing technique—Drogon says you didn't fall. Next time your brother comes to Dragonstone, let him enter through the front door. People of House Stark don't need to climb through windows anymore."

Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter. The sea breeze blew her red hair, obscuring half of her face. A tiny arc appeared at the corners of her mouth behind the hair.

"He will probably still climb it. The Young Wolf climbing a window—he is faster than a wolf running."

Late at night. Daenerys's bedchamber. Outside the window, the red glow of the volcanic crater flickered slowly in the darkness.

Daenerys sat at the head of the bed, holding the route map for the northern mission that Jorah had just presented.

The map was drawn in charcoal, showing the complete route from Dragonstone to the Fist of the First Men—bypassing The Twins, heading north along the Kingsroad. Sansa would depart with the mission in three days.

The mission was led by Barristan Selmy, with fifty Unsullied guards and three Dothraki scouts. On the edge of the map, Jorah had marked every section where they might encounter White Walker patrols with a fine pen.

Drogon sat cross-legged on the floor by her bed—this was the first time he had time to sit in this position since returning from King's Landing. His tail was wrapped around her ankle, a little tighter than before, but without any discomfort.

The ring of silver-grey around his vertical pupils reflected slightly under the Dragonglass Lamp, like a circle of extremely fine silver lightning frozen at the edge of his pupils. The phantom pain on the scale on his left chest had completely disappeared, and the dark gold pattern of the scale had returned to the same luster as the other scales.

Daenerys put down the route map. She gently stepped on the tip of his tail with her toes. Her voice carried a tired but satisfied drowsiness.

"In the trial, you saw the Storm Ancestor Dragon executed by the chief judge. Then it passed its memories to you. What do you plan to do next—"

"The Citadel. The last relic. That relic contains a piece of weirwood fossil, which can interfere with the tracking of the Chronos Dragon."

"Varys says the Enforcement Squad will arrive in a week. I will go to The Citadel tomorrow. Back and forth in the same day. The Citadel is in Oldtown, and Oldtown is not far from King's Landing. It takes about half a day to fly back to Dragonstone from Oldtown."

"The Citadel is in Oldtown. Oldtown is not far from King's Landing. Since you are going to The Citadel—stop by Copper and Bed on your way."

"What for?"

"Tell Tyrion—his brother's dagger has been received. Tell him Sansa arrived at Dragonstone this afternoon. The old debts he owed, including interest, have all been paid off."

Drogon's tail curled gently around her ankle. His vertical pupils flickered between dark gold and silver-grey—the silver-grey trim was particularly striking against the dark gold pupils. Then he closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the edge of the bed.

"Alright. Tomorrow to The Citadel. The day after tomorrow to King's Landing. Three days later—the northern mission departs. Next—wait for the Enforcement Squad. Before the Storm Ancestor Dragon was executed, it said one thing—'Evolution cannot be erased.' It guarded for six thousand years. Now it is my turn."

Outside the window, the red glow of the volcanic crater flickered slowly in the darkness. In the Mineral Vein Chamber, the dragon bones of Orys and the rib fossil of the Storm Ancestor Dragon lay side by side on both sides of the dragon-glass pillar—one dark gold, one dark grey. The runes on the dragon-glass pillar were still glowing faintly: "The successor has returned."