139: Chapter 139 Post-War

Above King's Landing. Dawn.

The Space-Time Dragon Captain hovered at the edge of the clouds, the wound at the base of his left wing still oozing silvery-white dragon blood.

He did not attack again, but he did not land either. He remained at an altitude where he could easily advance to attack or retreat to escape—an instinctive choice for an experienced hunter; even though he had agreed to a deal, he would never fully expose his back to an opponent who had just crushed his gland.

When he spoke, he did not use the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Telepathic Communication.

He used his voice—raspy, deep, and carrying the unique rhythm of the Ancient Valyrian tongue. Every word was a memory, not a narration.

“Storm Devourer. Real name, Aerion Targaryen. A member of the last generation of the Dragonlord Council before The Doom of the Valyrian Freehold.

When The Doom occurred—he refused to participate in the collective annihilation of the Valyrian mainland.

He chose to flee The Doom with thirteen evolution shards.

The Tribunal ruled that he had violated the 'Doom Accord'—which mandated that when The Doom occurred, all Dragonlords had to return to the Valyrian mainland to collectively face the karmic liquidation. He refused. He fled with the fragments.”

He paused.

A minute ripple flickered in his silvery-white vertical pupils—not of anger, but a calm confusion that only an enforcer would have when reviewing an old case.

“I took part in the hunt. We pursued him for four hundred years. In the lower plane—which you call Westeros—we found his dragon tomb. His dragon bones have already been absorbed by your kin. The evolution shards are inside your body.

Storm Devourer's final words were—'Evolution cannot be erased. Find my successor. Tell him. The truth of the Doom Accord. It is not with The Tribunal.'”

Drogon's vertical pupils contracted slightly.

“What truth?”

“I do not know. Before he died, he only said—the truth is not with The Tribunal. It is in Westeros. Right where you stand.”

The Space-Time Dragon Captain's silvery-white vertical pupils swept over King's Landing below—the dying embers of Flea Bottom, the broken ballistas on the city walls, and the Fire Dragon-born Knight surrounded by the mob.

His left wing trembled slightly, the ice crystals on his spatial gland still spreading, but he controlled it to keep the tremor from affecting his voice. “I cannot tell you more. Because The Tribunal performed a selective memory wipe on the Enforcement Squad—after that mission ended, I lost all memories of the final three years of the pursuit.”

Drogon was silent for a breath. Then, he slowly folded his left wing, lowering the wingtip by half a meter.

This was a gesture among the Dragon Clan indicating a 'temporary truce'—not surrender, but 'I won't bite you for now.'

The ice crystal armor of his Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form made a faint cracking sound as he folded his wings. A few ice crystals peeled off from his scales, shattering into faint blue light-dust in the morning breeze.

“That is enough. Take your people and withdraw.”

The Space-Time Dragon Captain gave him one last look with his silvery-white vertical pupils, then turned away.

The flapping of his left wing was still somewhat irregular—damage to the spatial gland required at least a month of high-tier dragon self-healing to recover—but he still maintained the formation flight speed with the dignity of an Enforcement Captain.

He flew above the city walls and used the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Telepathic Communication to issue the retreat order to the Dragon-born Apostle. The Dragon-born Apostle put away her staff, and the faint blue scanning light wave vanished.

The remaining two Dragonborn Knights—the Ice-type and the Bronze-type—pulled up in altitude simultaneously, following behind him.

The Fire Dragon-born Knight was pulled up from the ruins of Flea Bottom by the Dragon-born Apostle using the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Starlight Tether.

He had multiple puncture wounds from crowbars and harpoons across his body, the ballista wound on his left shoulder was still bleeding, and his backup shortsword was gone—taken by that barefoot child.

As he was hoisted into the sky by the starlight beam, the mob below was still throwing broken tiles at him. A child shouted at him, “Bring enough money next time!”

The five dragon silhouettes converged in the clouds, then were sucked back into the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Void Rift.

The rift closed behind them, swallowing the twisted wisps of clouds and the silvery-white cold light together.

The sky above King's Landing returned to the darkness that belonged to the pre-dawn hours.

Only the embers of Flea Bottom flickered in the night wind, along with the unextinguished wildfire residue on the ruined city walls—the wildfire burned exceptionally slowly on the cross-section of the spatial fault, like green worms crawling on a smooth stone surface.

Drogon hovered above King's Landing, the Ice Fire in his vertical pupils gradually dying out.

The ice crystal armor of the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form peeled off piece by piece, shattering into faint blue light-dust in the morning breeze—the light-dust drifted down onto the roofs of Flea Bottom, where early-rising children dabbed it with their fingers, only to find it was incredibly fine ice crystal powder that melted in less than a heartbeat under the warmth of their hands.

He looked down at his chest—there was a wound left by the Chronos Dragon's tail whip, the dark-gold dragon blood already coagulated, forming a thin golden line under the residual low temperature of the ice crystals.

A System pop-up appeared in gold lettering.

“The Space-Time Dragon Captain has retreated. Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form remaining time: two minutes.

Whisper of the Old Gods remaining time: four minutes.

It is recommended that the host switch back to full human form within two minutes—the backlash after the end of the Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form will arrive within ten minutes after switching. Estimated backlash symptoms: Dragon Clan Bloodline activity will drop to forty percent for thirty minutes.

Additionally: It has been detected that the host successfully cast the Ancient Valyrian Dragon Magic: Wing-Turning Gale for the first time in this battle—this is one of the most difficult turning maneuvers in dragon aerial combat, with a completion rate of seventy-three percent. It has been recorded in the System's combat skill library.”

“Understood. Switching to human form. Back to the wine cellar. Find Tyrion. And then—go home.”

King's Landing. Tyrell Mansion underground wine cellar. Before dawn.

When Drogon pushed open the cellar's secret door in his full human form, Tyrion was using Jaime's telescope to observe the sky outside the window.

The soot on the telescope's barrel had been wiped away—likely by Jaime; the Golden Hand had his own uniquely clumsy way of wiping things.

“They're gone,” Drogon said.

He leaned against a wine barrel. The backlash from switching back to his full human form had not yet hit, but his body was already beginning to feel that faint sensation of having a portion of his strength drained away.

In his human form, the wound on his left shoulder had turned into a pale gold scar extending from his shoulder blade to just below his collarbone—this was the wound left by the spatial fault while in dragon form, which automatically shrank upon switching to human form but could not be completely erased.

Around the edges of the scar was a ring of extremely fine silvery-white patterns, the traces of the residual energy from the spatial fault.

“I got the execution record. Storm Devourer—Aerion Targaryen. The truth of the Doom Accord—is not with The Tribunal. It is in Westeros.”

Tyrion lowered the telescope, a rare trace of uncertainty flickering in his deep green eyes.

“So who exactly are you? Are you Drogon—or the successor of Aerion Targaryen?”

Drogon looked down at the obsidian bubble bracelet on his left wrist, which Sansa had woven.

The bubbles shimmered with iridescence under the dim light of the Dragonglass Lamp—some were round, some flat, and some had an extremely fine hole in the middle.

“I am Drogon. And I am the successor. It does not matter. What matters is—the truth of the Doom Accord is in Westeros. He said so before he died. He fled for hundreds of years to get here—it was not by chance. He chose this place.”

Jaime was in the corner, wiping his longsword. The dragon blood on the blade had already dried, leaving a dark red film on the edge. He wiped it very slowly, his Golden Hand gripping the scabbard while his left hand held the cloth. Hearing this, he looked up.

“So what are you going to do next? Search for the truth?”

“First, back to Dragonstone,” Drogon said.

He stood up from the wine barrel and stretched his shoulders—the backlash of the Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form was already beginning to creep up, and the Bloodline activity in his body was slowly declining, like a spring being gradually compressed.

A faint sting radiated from the pale gold scar on his left shoulder as he moved—the residual energy of the spatial fault was still throbbing inside the scar, like an extremely fine needle buried under his skin.

“Daenerys wants to try on her crown. White Mane is waiting for me to fulfill my promise. Missandei's new tactical algorithm needs combat data. Melisandre wants to ask me about the Chronos Dragon. And as for Margaery—I'm already dreading the contents of her next purchase list.”

Tyrion looked at the scar on Drogon's left shoulder.

“That wound of yours—”

“Inflicted by the spatial fault. It's not deep. It'll heal in a couple of days.” Drogon rotated his left shoulder, the silvery-white patterns along the edges of the pale gold scar flashing under the Dragonglass Lamp. “When he hit me, I happened to be biting down on his gland in a tail-chase. We'll call it even.”

Tyrion nodded, then suddenly asked a question.

“The Storm Devourer's evolution shards inside your body—what do they feel like?”

Drogon was silent for a breath. Then, he extended his right hand, spreading his palm under the dim light of the Dragonglass Lamp. There was nothing in his palm—no Ice Fire, no scales, no vertical pupils. Just a complete human form, with completely human fingers and human palm lines.

“It is like having an extra voice speaking in my mind. But that voice does not speak my own words. It belongs to someone else. Someone who fled for hundreds of years, ran across thousands of worlds, and finally died in a place called Westeros.

And before he died, he was still preoccupied with telling his successor—the truth is not with The Tribunal.”

He clenched his hand into a fist.

“So I must find that truth. But not today. Today—I promised someone. After the battle. Go home.”

Tyrion and Jaime exchanged a look. Standing by the withered rose bushes in the abandoned alley, the two brothers watched Drogon push open the cellar door in the final darkness before dawn and walk toward the underground sewer.

Jaime sheathed his longsword and patted his younger brother's shoulder with his Golden Hand.

“He said 'go home.' Not return to Dragonstone—but go home.”

“I know,” Tyrion said. He placed the telescope back on the wine barrel. “To others, Dragonstone is just called Dragonstone. To him—it is probably the place where the person wearing the crown he stole resides.”

Dragonstone...

The first true ray of morning light shone through the high window, illuminating the Crown of Aegon I in Daenerys's hands.

In the morning light, the seven rubies finally revealed the embers of dragonfire sealed deep within them—at the very depths of each gemstone, a minute thread of dark red light flowed, like seven embers trapped in amber.

Daenerys placed the crown upon her head. The valyrian steel circlet fit perfectly with her silver-gold hair—as if it had been custom-made for her. Of course, that was impossible, but it fit perfectly when she put it on.

“How is it?” She turned to face Drogon.

Drogon leaned against the high window, the obsidian bubble bracelet on his left wrist shimmering with iridescence in the morning light. Full human form.

Deep brown round pupils. The backlash of the Pseudo-Ice Dragon Form had already passed—he had endured the thirty minutes of Bloodline activity suppression aboard the raven back to Dragonstone.

The pale gold scar on his left shoulder gleamed faintly in the morning light. Now, only a very mild soreness, like the fatigue after exercise, remained in his body.

“Almost as beautiful as when you tried on the chains last time.” He paused. “No. Even more beautiful.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow.

“Even more beautiful? Last time with the chains, you said, 'This chain looks like a collar on your neck.' This time you only say 'even more beautiful.' Do you simply not know how to compliment someone?”

“I do,” Drogon said, walking over from the window and reaching out to gently touch the foremost ruby on the crown with his fingertip.

That gemstone represented King's Landing—the kingdom conquered last in the War of Conquest. “This is the ruby of King's Landing. It seals the embers of the first Dragonlord's Dragon Flame. The other six represent the other six kingdoms. This one—is mine.”

Daenerys raised her violet eyes to meet his gaze.

“Yours?”

“I've rolled in the dirt of Flea Bottom. I've swum in the Blackwater River. I've scaled the walls of the Red Keep's back gate. I've stolen a crown in the Great Hall of the iron throne. And tonight, I crushed the spatial gland of a Chronos Dragon in the skies above King's Landing.”

He moved his fingertip away from the ruby and pointed to the pale gold scar on his left shoulder. “I also took a hit from a spatial fault. King's Landing—I have already conquered it. So this ruby is mine.”

Daenerys looked at the scar on his left shoulder, a minute gleam flashing in her violet eyes—she was using her blood bond Brand to sense the residual energy of the spatial fault inside him.

She reached out and pressed her thumb gently against the pale gold scar. The silvery-white patterns along the edges of the scar throbbed slightly under her fingertip, then slowly faded—the healing resonance of the blood bond was helping him expel the residual spatial energy.

“A remnant of the spatial fault. It's not deep, but it left a mark.” She withdrew her hand, her thumb still dusted with extremely fine silvery-white powder—the expelled remnants of spatial energy. “Next time, don't block a spatial fault with your shoulder. Use your tail.”

“My tail was busy smashing his ribs. No time.”

White Mane cleared her throat at the doorway.

Her dragon-kiss sword hung at her waist, the seventeen stitches on the old scabbard clearly visible in the morning light. The Brand on the back of her neck radiated a steady warmth—exactly the same as before she charged on the beachhead.

Her amber eyes swept back and forth between the two of them, and then, in a tone that said 'I slaughtered my way through an entire battalion on the beachhead but I don't want to be a third wheel,' she spoke.

“The beachhead tally is complete. Three Braavosi rapiers captured.

Two crates of crossbow bolts. The salvageable supplies from the fleet wreckage are enough to equip about half a cavalry battalion. Rhaegal and Viserion are resting in the dragonnest—Rhaegal has a scraped right wingtip, and Viserion is hoarse from over-breathing. Both are minor injuries. Also—”

She untied a cloth pouch from her waist and tossed it to Drogon. The pouch traced a parabola through the air, making a crisp metallic clinking sound.

“—this was sent by a blacksmith in Flea Bottom via a caravan while you were fighting the Chronos Dragon. He said thank you for drawing the dragon away. He also said—next time, you get a twenty percent discount on black salt.”

Drogon caught the pouch and opened it. Inside was a small bag of the finest black salt from the Flea Bottom black market—plump, matte-finished grains, each ground incredibly fine. There was also a crumpled slip of paper with a few large, crooked characters written on it:

“Black Scales. Next time you come to King's Landing, you don't have to pay for the damage at the Broken Sail Inn. But remember to bargain.”

He chuckled, tying the cloth pouch next to the leather pouch at his waist.

“A favor in Flea Bottom is worth more than gold on the iron throne.”

Melisandre walked in from the direction of the Nightfire Altar outside the high window. In the morning light, her red robes no longer looked like the color of fire—they were an extremely dark burgundy. Her red eyes looked at the crown on Daenerys's head, and then at the bracelet on Drogon's left wrist. Her voice was calm.

“The North. Winterfell. Before you go there—the nightfire needs to burn once more. Just now, I saw the direction of Winterfell in the flames. There is something that has been waiting in the fire for eight thousand years. It is waiting for you.”

White Mane cleared her throat yet again at the doorway—this time, the gesture was visibly more pronounced, as if to say, 'Can you two finish your conversation outside? I still need to hand out the spoils of war to the cavalry.'

“Before going to Winterfell—should we have some breakfast on Dragonstone first?”

Drogon picked up a small bag of items from beside the high window, which he had brought back alongside the Braavosi rapiers and two crates of crossbow bolts—it was the last batch of black salt he had bought in Flea Bottom, along with two jars of pickled fish that an old woman at the spice market had forced upon him. He placed the jars of pickled fish on the table, then pulled out the pouch sent by the Flea Bottom blacksmith from his waist leather bag, pouring a bit of black salt onto the table.

“Let's eat. After eating, we head to the North. Put the crown by the head of the bed first. Put the chains by the head of the bed too. No locking up tonight—but tomorrow might be different.”

The corners of Daenerys's mouth curved upward.

“You said 'no locking up tonight.' King's Landing is won. The Chronos Dragon is driven away. The crown is back. We will worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”

The morning light of Dragonstone streamed in through the high window, bathing the figure sitting on the iron throne, the crown on her head, the bracelet on his left wrist, the purple flame stone ring on her thumb, the pale gold scar on his left shoulder, the bag of dragonglass fragments at his waist, the jar of Flea Bottom pickled fish on the table, and the bag of discounted black salt—all in a gilded layer of gold.