130: Chapter 130 Sansa's Breakfast Before Departure

Morning. The Dragonstone castle dining hall.

The last breakfast before the northbound delegation's departure.

Daenerys and Sansa Stark sat opposite each other at the ends of the long table.

On the table lay simple black bread, grilled fish, and boiled eggs from Dragonstone's volcanic hot springs. Outside the window, the steam from the volcanic crater was tinted pale gold in the morning light.

Sansa had already changed into a northern-style grey wool dress—the thickest piece of clothing Margaery had prepared for her in King's Landing. The tear on the hem, scratched by a rose bush, had been mended with Highgarden-green thread.

Her deep blue eyes looked calmer in the morning light than when she first arrived at Dragonstone, with less of the wariness from when she climbed out of the Red Keep's window, and more of the anticipation of returning to the North.

Sansa slid a small package wrapped in oilcloth toward Daenerys.

"Give this to Drogon for me.

He waited at the back door for a long time when he rescued me, and the wind was very cold in the latter half of the night.

I don't have anything valuable to thank him with.

This is something I found on Dragonstone—volcanic black sand melts at high temperatures to form a very light obsidian foam.

I used it to weave a bracelet. He said he gets fascinated counting dragonglass.

Next time he counts dragonglass and sees this bracelet, maybe he'll remember he isn't made of dragonglass shards."

Daenerys took the oilcloth package.

She felt the outline of the bracelet inside the package—each piece of foam was shaped differently, some round, some flat, some with a tiny hole in the middle. The clasp was threaded with silver silk. Then she looked up, her purple eyes meeting Sansa's deep blue ones.

"I will give it to him. After you go north—the Young Wolf's attitude toward the Mother of Dragons might need to be softened by you first.

I don't ask you to speak for me. I only ask you to tell him the truth—that my dragon dismantled the wildfire beneath King's Landing, my dragon rescued you from the Red Keep, and my fleet has not fired a single ballista at King's Landing yet."

Sansa was silent for a moment, then nodded. She broke the bread in half, handing one half to Daenerys and holding the other half in her own hand.

"The custom of House Stark—bread and salt.

I do not offer bread to anyone at a dining table south of the Wall. You are the first."

Daenerys took the bread, dipped it in salt, and took a bite. The bread was baked from Dragonstone rye flour, and the salt was coarse sea salt from the mouth of the Blackwater River. She chewed slowly.

"The custom of House Targaryen—Dragon Flame never burns those who have given us bread. You are safe."

Sansa dipped her own half of the bread in salt as well, but did not eat it immediately.

She looked down at the salt grains on the bread glistening in the morning light. Then she spoke, her voice half a tone softer than before.

"My father used to say—north of the North, bread and salt weigh heavier than the iron throne.

On the day he died in King's Landing, he received bread and salt from no one. You gave them to me.

So no matter what my brother thinks of the name Targaryen—I will tell him that the Mother of Dragons does not rely on Dragon Flame to win submission. She relies on bread."

Daenerys's purple eyes lingered on Sansa's face for a long time. Outside the window, a small plume of dark red lava erupted from the volcanic crater, reflecting on the sea like an extremely thin line of blood. She stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to Sansa.

"Your father's matter—I did not experience it personally.

But I know what my father did. I will not apologize for him.

He is my surname, not my sin. Your bread surprises me more than your forgiveness would."

Sansa ate the salt-dipped bread. Then she stood up and wrapped her Highgarden wool cloak tightly around herself again.

"It is not forgiveness. I have simply decided—not to hate you."

Barristan Selmy was waiting at the entrance of the dining hall.

The old knight's white hair was neatly combed, and his white beard gleamed silver in the morning light.

He wore the old armor of the Kingsguard, the Seven-Pointed Star on his breastplate worn down to a mere outline.

Behind him, fifty Unsullied had already lined up in the castle's front courtyard, and three Dothraki scouts on horseback were waiting on the wooden walkway.

Sansa walked to the entrance of the dining hall.

She paused. Turned back. Her deep blue eyes took one last look at Daenerys's back as she stood by the window.

"You just said your father is your surname, not your sin. I used to be the same—Stark was my surname, not my sin. But it took me many years to learn that. You are faster than me."

She turned. Following Barristan, she walked down the stone steps of the castle.

Daenerys did not accompany her to the harbor. She stood by the window, watching the northbound delegation cross the black sand beach and head toward the Dothraki sailing ships moored in the harbor.

Sansa's grey wool cloak billowed slightly in the morning breeze, and the Highgarden-green stitching on her hem flashed in the sunlight.

Jorah came from the end of the corridor. He stood two paces behind her, his voice low.

"Your Majesty. The northbound delegation has departed. Young Miss Sansa asked me to pass a message to you before she boarded the ship—she said the volcanic steam of Dragonstone smells better than the coal smoke of King's Landing. She will pass on a message for you in the North."

"What message?"

"'The Mother of Dragons has given Stark bread and salt.'"

Daenerys's fingertips tapped lightly on the windowsill. Then she turned and walked toward the council chamber.

"Call White Mane here. We will continue our sparring today. While he is away—I cannot slacken."

Afternoon. King's Landing. Flea Bottom. Copper and Bed Brothel.

King's Landing was still under martial law, but the commotion in the Red Keep had shifted from "hunting the runaway Stark bride" to "preparing to counter the Targaryen fleet"—Cersei's attention had been drawn by the military mobilization on Dragonstone, and the patrol density in Flea Bottom was slightly looser than the previous two days. The Gold Cloaks on the streets were halved.

The grey smoke from the Copper and Bed Brothel had turned into white smoke this morning.

Tyrion had used wet firewood on the roof to smother the grey smoke; the newly rising white smoke was pine wood lit by the proprietress herself, burning vigorously and smelling very fragrant. The meaning of the white smoke was simple and straightforward: "All clear."

Drogon pushed open the crooked wooden door of the brothel. Tyrion sat in his usual spot, with the unfinished bottle of fake Arbor wine and a plate of cold roasted pigeon in front of him.

The pigeon had been torn in half, and the meat was completely cold.

Seeing Drogon enter, Tyrion tapped the chair opposite him with his short cane.

"You're late. Was The Citadel's secret vault fun? It is said there are more books there than fleas in a King's Landing brothel. You probably stole more than one."

Drogon sat down.

"He took out the banned book on the dragonlord consort system from his leather pouch and placed it on the table.

His dark brown round pupils swept across Tyrion's face—the man had clearly pulled many more late nights during the martial law in King's Landing, but his mental state was much better than before Sansa's rescue. There was a bit more life in his green eyes.

"This one is a legitimately bought book. The one in the secret vault—it was written in blood by The Old Gods. It's not finished yet. Never mind that for now. Sansa arrived at Dragonstone yesterday.

The scratch on her leg has healed. She asked me to tell you—she didn't return your wine cup. She said you'll have to come to Dragonstone after the war to get it yourself."

Tyrion's fingers paused on his short cane.

His deep green eyes stared blankly at the banned book on the table for a few seconds. Then he quickly poured two cups of the fake wine, slid one to Drogon, and gulped down most of his own cup first.

"You didn't tell her that the wine cup was the one my father couldn't find before I killed him."

"I didn't. That is between you and her. I am only responsible for passing on the message."

Tyrion set down his cup. A very faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. It was not sarcastic, nor self-deprecating, but a rare kind of relaxation that he was unaccustomed to showing on his face.

"Chief Architect. Westeros Reconstruction Committee. And an unreturned wine cup. There are more and more reasons to survive until after the war."

Drogon picked up the fake wine and took a sip. It was still sour, but had a bit more pine-wood smokiness than last time—perhaps the proprietress had gotten a new batch. He set the cup down and tapped his finger on the gilded cover of the banned book.

"Have you read this one? A banned book. The dragonlord consort system. The Citadel banned it after Robert's Rebellion."

Tyrion took the banned book and flipped through it casually. His green eyes swept over the page numbers in Old Valyrian, and he raised an eyebrow.

"I haven't read this one.

But there was another volume of the same set in my father's study—Volume Seven.

Volume Seven is about historical cases of the consort Right of Punishment.

He forced me to read that volume before my wedding. Probably to warn me not to make the mistakes written inside. I read it, but I didn't listen. He is probably still cursing me from Casterly Rock even now."

He closed the banned book and pushed it back to Drogon. Then he looked up, a hint of shrewd calculation flashing in his green eyes.

"You didn't buy a banned book to study history. What are you trying to find in it—clauses on blood bonds, Brands, and secondary consorts? You already have the Mother of Dragons and White Mane. Melisandre is still waiting by the fire. You are afraid of crossing the line and triggering punishment."

Drogon did not answer. He put the banned book back into his leather pouch. His tail did not exist in his fully human form, but his finger traced a circle around the rim of his wine cup.

"I have already finished reading the clauses. The Right of Punishment belongs to her. I won't touch them."