136: Chapter 136 The Iron Throne Hall

The Red Keep.

The iron throne Room.

After midnight.

Outside the window, the battle above the walls of King's Landing continued. The roars of Dragons and the thrum of ballistae echoed through the high windows, rattling the stained-glass window behind the iron throne.

The scene of the conquest of the Seven Kingdoms depicted on the stained glass trembled slightly in the vibrations—the image of Aegon riding his Dragon shook continuously.

The iron throne Room was empty and chaotic at this moment.

In the very center of the hall, the iron throne—that hideous throne forged from a thousand swords of defeated enemies—waited silently in the shadows for its next master, whenever they might arrive.

The tips of the throne's swords gleamed coldly under the green fire outside the window. Every single sword was captured by Aegon I during the Conquest, melted and forged into this iron chair that was uncomfortable for anyone to sit on.

The design with the sword points facing outward was supposedly because Aegon believed that "a king should never sit easy."

Drogon slid silently in from the servants' passage on the west side of the iron throne Room.

Fully in human form, his deep brown circular pupils precisely locked onto the location of the dragon-carved relief in the darkness.

He bypassed the iron throne without giving it a second glance—not because he wasn't interested, but because he told himself, "Now is not the time to study an iron chair, the crown is what matters."

He stopped before the dragon-carved relief on the back wall. The dragon eyes on the relief were two now-dimmed rubies.

His fingertips found a tiny groove at the eye of the dragon relief—the gap between the ruby and the stone carving. He pressed it.

The relief slid silently to the left, revealing a narrow stone staircase just wide enough for a single person to squeeze through sideways.

The stone steps descended, the air thick with the scent of dust accumulated over centuries.

At the end was an unlocked black iron door. Behind it, the Crown of Aegon I lay quietly on a faded red velvet pillow.

The crown was forged of valyrian steel, its band set with seven thumb-sized rubies—the symbol of the unification of the Seven Kingdoms.

The rubies did not glow in the dark, but each had been tempered by Dragon Flame, sealing a faint ember of ancient Valyrian dragonfire within.

Under the light of the Dragonglass Lamp, one could faintly see extremely fine threads of dark red light flowing deep within the gems, like fire trapped in amber.

"The crown of the first Conqueror. Worn by Orys Targaryen's grandfather himself. Dragonfire is sealed inside the rubies—System, what other function does this thing have besides being a crown?"

A System pop-up appeared with golden text.

"Crown of Aegon I: The seven rubies represent the Seven Kingdoms during the War of Conquest.

Each gem seals an ember of the First Dragon King's Dragon Flame.

Wearing it alone grants no combat attributes. However, during a Dragon Clan Mating Ritual, if a carrier of the Dragon Bloodline and their human spouse touch the seven rubies on the crown together, it can trigger 'Conqueror's Covenant' once: for the next year, the number of fatal damage transfers for their blood bond will be increased by one.

Note: This effect is not recorded in any existing Old Valyrian texts. It was deduced by the System based on the resonance frequency between the wavelength of the dragonfire embers inside the gems and the host's blood bond imprint."

"An extra transfer of fatal damage. Totally worth the price of admission tonight. Pack it up. Put it in the leather pouch. Place it with the pigeon-blood ruby. I'll take it back to Daenerys."

Flea Bottom.

After midnight. The ruins of the Broken Sail Inn.

The crash site of the Fire Dragon-born Knight—he had crashed through the roof of the Broken Sail Inn, falling into the lobby along with his Dragon.

The inn's signboard had crashed to the ground and shattered in two, the sailboat design torn down the middle by the crack.

The left wing of his dark red dragon-born mount, which had a wingspan of over twenty meters, had been pierced by a ballista, and the hole in the wing membrane was still seeping dark red Dragon blood.

The Dragon blood dripped onto the inn's floorboards, burning through the wood and releasing wisps of green smoke.

Unable to fly, it lay in the ruins, panting. A low hiss escaped its chest as it rose and fell, spraying a fine mist of blood from the hole in its wing membrane with every breath.

The Dragonborn Knight himself had been thrown from the Dragon's back, landing in the muddy streets of Flea Bottom.

His valyrian steel spear's shaft was broken, the fracture jagged—not severed by a blade, but snapped from the fall.

The Heart-Burning Flame on the spear tip had been extinguished, leaving only a dull valyrian steel spearhead.

The dragon-born insignia on his armor was dented, and the ballista wound on his left shoulder was still bleeding. He struggled to his feet, only to find himself surrounded by the residents of Flea Bottom.

Men held crowbars and harpoons, women clutched stones and broken tiles, and children peeked out from behind the adults.

An old woman held a broken tile she had picked up from the ruins of the inn.

Her pale grey eyes stared at the Dragonborn Knight's dragon-born armor, then at the wounded Dragon still struggling behind him. Her voice was raspy and low, as if assessing merchandise.

"This one isn't our black-scaled one. This thing came to attack our King's Landing."

A blacksmith nearby hefted the iron hammer in his hand. He had lost a son in the Battle of the Blackwater. His voice was raspy and low.

"Doesn't matter if it's black-scaled or red-scaled—if a Dragon comes to attack King's Landing, we fight the Dragon. We'll settle the score with the black-scaled one later. Let's slaughter this one first."

The mob of Flea Bottom did not wait for the Gold Cloaks.

They had lived at the bottom of King's Landing all their lives, taxed by nobles, extorted by Gold Cloaks, and crushed by war countless times. Tonight, they did not plan to wait any longer.

Hammers, crowbars, broken tiles, and harpoons rained down upon the Fire Dragon-born Knight all at once.

The Dragonborn Knight's armor deflected some of the attacks—hammers struck sparks on his breastplate, and broken tiles shattered against his pauldrons—but he had already lost the aerial advantage of his mount and was surrounded deep by the mob.

He tried to draw a spare valyrian steel shortsword, chanting the incantation of Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Heart-Burning Flame—but halfway through, his sleeve was pinned down by a harpoon.

The shortsword slipped from his fingers and was picked up by a barefoot child, who looked at it for half a second before turning and running deep into the alley. The incantation dispersed into a few feeble sparks in the air, dying out as they hit the muddy ground.

In the skies above King's Landing.

After midnight.

The Dragon-born Apostle hovered above the Red Keep, the dragonglass at the tip of her staff channeling Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Bloodline Tracking Array at full power.

Deep blue scanning lightwaves rippled outward from the staff tip, sweeping over the rooftops of King's Landing ring by ring. Wherever the lightwave passed, the faint blue outlines of the buildings in that area would appear within the dragonglass of the staff.

Each ring of lightwaves carried the low-frequency hum characteristic of the Dragon Bloodline, sounding like an invisible bell being tolled above King's Landing.

Her hood had slid back, revealing a young but exceptionally pale female face.

Her short, pale-gold hair was blown flat against her forehead by the night wind, and her violet eyes, unique to the Old Valyrian Bloodline, gleamed in the moonlight—though her pupils were vertical slits, a residual mark of the Dragon Bloodline.

Her tracking array had already ruled out the back gate of the Red Keep, the Flea Bottom black market, and the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, and was now tightening its search area toward the Tyrell Mansion.

The scanning lightwave paused for a brief moment above the Tyrell Mansion—trembling slightly, as if it had hit some invisible barrier.

A System pop-up appeared with yellow text.

"Warning.

"The accuracy of the Dragon-born Apostle's tracking array is higher than estimated.

"She is using a high-precision Bloodline signal filter after space-folding—the interference effect of the weirwood fossil has been partially neutralized. It is estimated that she will lock onto the Tyrell Mansion within fifteen minutes.

"It is recommended that the host activate the passive 'Whisper of the Old Gods'—this will provide an additional thirty minutes of complete cloaking."

Drogon was currently in the Red Keep's treasury, his fingers having just placed the crown into the leather pouch. His fingertips paused on the drawstring of the pouch.

"Activate. Thirty minutes is enough for me to take the crown, return to the wine cellar to find Tyrion, and then—harvest the Chronos Dragon."

"Whisper of the Old Gods activated. The interference signal of the weirwood fossil has been enhanced. The accuracy of the Dragon-born Apostle's tracking array will be temporarily suppressed. Thirty-minute countdown initiated."

The dragonglass at the tip of the Dragon-born Apostle's staff suddenly flickered a few times, and its brightness plummeted.

The scanning lightwave bounced off the Tyrell Mansion, refracted in other directions by an extremely faint, greyish-white halo—the protection of the residual will of The Old Gods, the final layer of defense left behind by Westeros's native pantheon eight thousand years ago.

The greyish-white halo was like an extremely thin spiderweb, blanketing the Tyrell Mansion.

Her violet vertical pupils constricted, her voice carrying an unbelievable confusion.

"The tracking signal... vanished? His Bloodline flashed briefly just now, and was then covered by an extremely ancient interference.

"This is not a technique of the Dragon Clan—this is the weirwood protection of The Old Gods.

"Captain—the target has received assistance from The Old Gods. The residual will of The Old Gods in Westeros."

A colder light than before flashed in the silver-white vertical pupils of the Space-Time Dragon Captain.

His voice rang out directly in the Dragon-born Apostle's consciousness, his tone no longer merely calm—it held an added layer of cautious alertness.

"The Old Gods. The Old Gods from that failed experiment eight thousand years ago.

"They still have residual will in the lower planes. This violates the The Tribunal's cleanup protocol. Apostle—continue trying to lock on. I will deal with the walls."