142: Chapter 142 Dragon Flame Forged Crown

Drogon placed the crown, now missing a gemstone, onto the obsidian platform at the edge of the volcanic crater.

He switched to his dragon form.

His wingspan fully expanded in the rising thermal currents of the crater, his dark gold scales casting a warm glow like a forge furnace under the reflection of the lava. The newly grown reverse scale on his left chest changed color slightly in the intense heat—while the surrounding old scales would turn red and then cool when Dragon Flame was brewing, the new scale skipped the red phase entirely, shifting directly from dark gold to incandescent white.

This was a sign of the scales' increased resistance to fire after the recent activation of the Fire Element.

He took the crown band into his dragon maw.

Pure Dragon Breath—not Ice Fire, but the newly activated, pure Old Valyria Dragon Flame—repeatedly heated the crown band with the faintest possible flow. The Dragon Flame condensed into a tiny dark gold fireball within his maw, enveloping the band without touching the gemstone settings.

The valyrian steel slowly softened in the Dragon Flame, not melted—melting would turn it into molten iron; softening meant the steel relaxed to a degree where it could be forged. The temperature control had to be precise to the millimeter: if the fire was too fierce, the gemstone settings would deform and the prongs would burn off; if it was too weak, the steel band could not be molded.

He took the crown band out of his maw in his dragon-man form—the steel band emitted a faint dark gold glow, a unique halo characteristic of valyrian steel at forging temperatures of Dragon Flame.

He pressed his fingers against the inner side of the crown band, pinching and adjusting the size discrepancy he had measured with his tail bit by bit.

His tail had measured her head circumference last night after she fell asleep—not with a tape measure, but by tracing half a circle along her forehead with the tip of his tail, memorizing the arc. Now, he pressed that arc into the inner side of the crown band.

valyrian steel would automatically re-solidify as it cooled, but forging required extremely precise timing—if pinched too early, the steel would be too soft and deform excessively; if pinched too late, it would have already hardened and become unworkable. He completed the final press at the exact moment before the steel band shifted from dark gold to dark gray.

Then, he submerged the crown into the volcanic spring water beside the platform.

The cold water met the hot steel band with a hiss, sending up a cloud of white steam. After the mist dissipated, the patterns on the valyrian steel of the crown band reappeared—not the old patterns from before the forging, but new ones.

The re-forging with Dragon Flame had altered the internal crystal arrangement of the steel; the new patterns were denser than the old, each one shimmering with a faint, dark gold afterglow.

He picked up the crown, checking the size of the inner band against the reflection of the lava in the crater. Then, he handed it to Daenerys, who was sitting on a nearby rock watching him work.

"Aegon I likely used Dragon Flame to forge his crown as well. valyrian steel has a memory of Dragon Flame. Once you wear it—the crown will remember your body temperature. The next time you take it off, it will automatically maintain your head size. This technique was invented by your ancestors. There is a fragmented memory of this in Orys's dragon bones."

Daenerys took the crown. Her fingers felt a subtle arc on the inner side of the band—it was the arc of her forehead he had measured with his tail tip.

"There are crown-forging tutorials in Orys's dragon bones?"

"Yes. Not many. But enough. He once modified the crown for Aegon I—it was also too big when Aegon first wore it. The men of House Targaryen seem to have larger head circumferences. Yours is just right."

The corners of Daenerys's mouth lifted slightly. She stood up from the rock, walked over to him, and reached out a finger to lightly touch the edge of the crown band—the valyrian steel emitted a faint humming sound as it cooled to room temperature.

That was the unique "Dragon Hum" tail-end sound of Dragon Flame-forged pieces; the internal crystals of the steel were still vibrating at a frequency barely audible to the human ear after the final Dragon Flame heating. The Dragon Hum would last until dawn tomorrow—exactly when the siege was set to begin.

"It's modified, try it on."

Drogon handed the crown to her. She took it with both hands and placed it on her head.

It was a perfect fit.

She walked to the edge of the obsidian platform, using the reflection of the crater's lava to look at the silhouette of the crown on her head.

She was silent for a long time. The red light from the crater shone on her face, and the silhouette of the crown was cast onto the obsidian rock wall—of the seven gemstone positions, six glowed with a faint dark red light, while the seventh was the dull dark purple of obsidian. She reached out and touched the position of that obsidian.

Then she turned around. Her purple eyes met his vertical pupils. Her voice was soft but extremely steady.

"The size is perfect. Siege tomorrow—I will wear it into King's Landing."

King's Landing. Red Keep Kitchen Cold Cellar. The night before the siege.

Drogon entered the Kitchen Cold Cellar in his full human form via the secret sewer passage that Tyrion had reactivated.

He had walked this secret passage twice before—the first time to dismantle The Mad King's main wildfire canister, and the second time while passing through on his way to steal the crown.

This was the third time. The scale on the walls of the secret passage had thickened, and under the faint light of the Dragonglass Lamp, one could see tiny water droplets condensed on the surface of the scale—they had only begun to condense after the temperature in the cold cellar plummeted.

The air in the cold cellar no longer smelled of salted meat and frozen fish.

On the level directly above the cold cellar, twelve canisters of new wildfire had been stacked together by Cersei's guards.

The sweet, acrid smell of wildfire seeped down through the stone ceiling—it wasn't a strong, burnt smell, but a very faint, faint one, like someone burning rotting honey far away. But faint did not mean safe. wildfire vapor was heavier than air and would seep down along the cracks in the stone.

Tyrion Lannister was already waiting in the cold cellar with Old Tomard and two Tyrell miners. Spread out before him was a newly drawn sketch of the upper structure of the cold cellar, with a short staff pinning down a corner of the paper.

Old Tomard was even older than when he had dismantled the main canister last time—his face had an extra layer of wrinkles, but his eyes were still bright, and his gaunt fingers were slowly moving along the distribution positions of the wildfire canisters on the sketch.

Tyrion pointed to the markings on the sketch with his short staff. His voice was kept extremely low, but he spoke quickly.

"Twelve canisters. Directly facing the stone ceiling of the cold cellar. No main canister, no Cremation Array arrangement—this batch of wildfire from Cersei is defective, remnants from The Mad King's wildfire, poorly packaged."

"The good news is that the sealing wax formula is much simpler than The Mad King's, making it easier to freeze."

"The bad news is that at least three canisters are already leaking. The leaking wildfire vapor is accumulating in the air, and the concentration is nearing the lower explosive limit."

"Old Tomard suggests you use the Ice Element to freeze the cracks in the stone ceiling from this side of the cold cellar, stopping the vapor from seeping down—then, from this side of the cold cellar, penetrate to the upper level and freeze the wildfire canister fuses until they crack. No one needs to go up."

Drogon looked up at the stone ceiling. The cold cellar ceiling was made of bluestone slabs laid during the time of The Mad King, with lead poured between the joints—but the lead seals had aged, and three cracks extended from the east corner to the center of the ceiling. The edges of the cracks glowed with a faint green light; it was the fluorescence of the wildfire vapor after it had condensed in the stone crevices.

"No fire. Just use the Ice Element to freeze the stone cracks from this side of the cold cellar, then penetrate to the upper level to freeze the wildfire canister fuses until they crack. No one needs to go up."

Old Tomard's gaunt fingers lightly traced over the stone ceiling. His fingertips paused on each of the three cracks, his nails scraped a bit of fluorescent powder from the edge of the cracks, and he held it to his nose to smell it.

"There are three cracks. All on the east side. The stone slabs were laid in The Mad King's year, and wildfire began leaking as soon as they were finished. It leaked for twenty years before it was blocked. Now it's the new canisters leaking. Lord Gal—once you freeze it steady from this side of the cold cellar, the level above will be safe. But during the siege, don't let the Dragon Flame sweep toward the kitchen direction. Even if the fuses of those twelve canisters are frozen, the canister bodies will still crack if hit directly."

Drogon pressed both hands against the stone ceiling.

The Ice Element seeped from his palms at the lowest flow rate. Not Ice Fire—Ice Fire was the combat form of the Ice Element, and the temperature would be too low, causing the stone slabs to crack directly.

He was now using the Ice Element infiltration mode; ice crystals spread upward along the natural cracks in the stone slabs, forming an extremely thin ice film inside the fissures. The temperature in the cold cellar plummeted within a few breaths, Tyrion's breath condensed into white mist, and Old Tomard pulled the collar of his miner's coat up higher.

The Ice Element infiltrated to the area around the wildfire canisters on the upper level.

He could perceive the precise location of the twelve canisters of wildfire—in the perception of the Ice Element, the wildfire was not hot, but bright; each canister was a brilliant green point of light, pulsating with unstable energy fluctuations in the darkness.

At the edges of the light points of the three leaking canisters, extremely fine green filaments were escaping. The Ice Element spread along the surface of the canisters, freezing the ignition mechanisms—the fuses, the sealing wax, the edges of the canister mouths—one by one.

The fuses were frozen into icicles, their internal fiber structures shattered in the extreme low temperature, making them impossible to light. The sealing wax cracked on its own below zero degrees; the wildfire remained inside the canisters, but the ignition path was completely severed. The mouths of the three leaking canisters were sealed shut by ice crystals, and the green filaments no longer escaped.

He continued to output for nearly half an hour. Until the sealing wax of the last wildfire canister was completely frozen and cracked. The green light at the edges of the three cracks in the stone ceiling extinguished. The air in the cold cellar once again only smelled of salted meat and frozen fish.

The System popped up a window. White text.

"All twelve canisters of new wildfire have been completely frozen. The sealing wax of the leaking canisters has been frozen, and the vapor leakage has stopped. There is currently no explosive wildfire threat beneath the Red Keep. If Cersei orders an ignition—it will not light."

Drogon withdrew his hand. The ice crystals slowly melted on his fingertips, turning into water droplets that dripped onto the stone floor of the cold cellar. He turned to Old Tomard.

"You said you would seal the secret passage again after dismantling it last time."

Old Tomard nodded. His gaunt fingers traced the stone ceiling again—this time pointing to the new ice film at the edge of the cracks.

"I did seal it. Cersei's guards dug it open themselves. They don't know there's a secret chamber below; they just treat the cold cellar as the nearest storage room. This batch of new canisters wasn't put here secretly—they moved them in during broad daylight. They left after moving them. No one is guarding it."

Tyrion tapped the stone ceiling with his short staff. The ice film gave off a very crisp echo under the strike.

"The guards won't guard wildfire canisters. They're afraid of being blown to bits. Now you've frozen them. Tomorrow's siege, the Red Keep infantry won't need to worry about wildfire. Qyburn's black magic detection array probably won't detect it either—his array is for detecting Dragon Clan Bloodlines, not for detecting Dragon Clan freezing wildfire."

Drogon shook off the last few drops of water from his fingertips. His deep brown round pupils lingered on Old Tomard's face for a moment.

"You said last time you wanted to retire. When?"

Old Tomard pulled the collar of his miner's coat down. It revealed a very thin old scar on his neck—a burn from the steam when he was dismantling wildfire canisters in the Red Keep's underground during the time of The Mad King.

"After these twelve canisters are cleared away. Once they're gone, I'll retire. Lord Gal—I knew you weren't human when you dismantled the first canister. That time your finger touched the outer shell of the wildfire canister, the temperature of the canister dropped from boiling point to freezing point within three heartbeats. Humans can't do that. But I didn't tell anyone. I didn't even tell my wife."

Drogon was silent for a moment. He reached into the leather pouch at his waist and pulled out a small bag of Dragonstone black sand—picked up from the beach at Dragonstone, originally intended to be brought back to King's Landing as grinding material for the blacksmiths in Flea Bottom. He placed the bag into Old Tomard's hand.

"Dragonstone black sand. Harder than the river sand in King's Landing. Good for sharpening blades. When you're retired, if you have time—go to Dragonstone. There's plenty of black sand on the beach. Pick up as much as you want."

Old Tomard took the bag. He weighed it in his hand. The black sand in the bag made a very fine, rustling sound. A tiny arc appeared at the corner of his mouth—it was a miner's respect for Ore, the same thing as a blacksmith's respect for another blacksmith.

"Black sand. Good stuff. I've been sharpening blades for fifty years, and I've never used Dragonstone black sand. Thank you."

King's Landing. The roof of the Copper and Bed Brothel.

The last night before the siege. Tyrion and Drogon sat side by side on the broken roof tiles.

The brothel closed early tonight—the proprietress moved all the fake wine into the cellar and boarded up the windows. She even took down the sign, leaving only two nail holes on the doorframe.

The whole city of King's Landing knew there would be a war tomorrow.

The residents of Flea Bottom sealed their doors and windows with broken tiles and old fishing nets, and recounted the silver stags and copper coins hidden under their beds—someone discovered an extra silver stag while counting, suspected it was borrowed from the neighbor, shouted through the wall, "I'll pay you back after the battle tomorrow," and the neighbor shouted back, "That coin is the one you borrowed from me last month, you should have paid it back long ago."

The blacksmiths of the Street of Steel extinguished their fires early, immersing the unfinished sword blanks into oil barrels for storage. A thin layer of iron filings floated on the surface of the oil, shimmering with a dark silver light under the moonlight.

Tyrion held the old wine cup that had been lost and recovered.

In the cup was the last bottle of true wine from The Arbor, unearthed from the depths of the wine cellar—not the cheap stuff from The Reach, but the golden wine of The Arbor from the Summer Islands, aged in oak barrels for at least five years. The wine shimmered with a very faint golden-green light under the moonlight.

"The last time I drank with you on this roof was before the start of the Mad Blood Scheme. At the time you said—'The Enforcement Squad will arrive in five days.' Then you went into the sky alone and led the Chronos Dragon toward the Gold Cloaks' ballistae. Now the Enforcement Squad has left, more than half of the Gold Cloaks are dead, and half of the ballistae on the walls of King's Landing were destroyed by the Chronos Dragon's space tears. Siege tomorrow—what do you plan to burn?"

Drogon leaned against the chimney. In human form. His deep brown round pupils reflected the sparse lights of King's Landing—most of the lights in Flea Bottom were out, with only a few windows leaking faint candlelight. He wasn't drinking, just slowly turning the wine cup in his palm. The bottom of the cup made a very fine, rustling sound as it rubbed against the tiles.

"Not burning. The city walls are left for the Unsullied's battering rams. The city gates are for the White Mane cavalry. The lion flags on the battlements of the Red Keep—I will shatter them with Ice Fire. Cersei hung hundreds of lion flags on the walls; it will take time to shatter them one by one. But the sound of shattering is better than burning."

"You just can't bear to burn it. In King's Landing, there's the Tyrell granary, the Street of Steel blacksmith shops, the Flea Bottom black market, the Copper and Bed fake wine—if you burn it, you won't have anywhere to count your dragonglass."

"And the sewer you just fixed. The Chief Architect's first project—repaired for three days, it would be a pity to burn it."

Tyrion drank the wine in his cup in one gulp. A flash of extremely complex emotion crossed his deep green eyes in the night—not sadness, but the final mockery of a dwarf for his hometown before it was about to be conquered.

"After tomorrow, King's Landing will no longer be the King's Landing of House Lannister. It will be House Targaryen's. If my father were still alive—he would probably smash another wine cup at Casterly Rock."

"Your father's wine cup was hidden by you five years ago. What he smashed was a newly bought one. The new wine cup isn't worth much. The old one is in your hands."

Drogon placed the wine cup on the tiles. The bottom of the cup slid a short distance down the sloping roof, blocked by a patch of moss.

"After the war—take that old cup to Dragonstone. Daenerys wants to see you. Not as the son of House Lannister—but as the Chief Architect."

Tyrion was silent. He turned the old wine cup once in his palm. The faint red wine stain on the rim, left from being hidden for five years, was almost invisible in the moonlight—but it was there. The wine stain that hadn't been washed off in five years would probably never be washed off.

"...She knows I killed my father."

"She knows. She heard it from your brother. She said—'The old debt House Lannister owed House Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister has already repaid in his own way. The new dynasty does not settle old scores.'"

Tyrion didn't answer. He placed the old wine cup on the tiles and gently tapped the rim with his short staff. The wine cup spun a few times on the tiles and stopped on a patch of moss beside the chimney. The moss was green. The wine cup was old. Tomorrow was new.