146: Chapter 146 Chains and the Reverse Scale

Dragonstone. Daenerys's bedchamber. The night had not yet fully faded outside the window.

The dark red glow from the volcanic crater filtered in through the high windows, staining the stone walls a warm black.

She had risen early. Her black riding attire was already on—simple and light, not as heavy as dragon scale armor.

Aegon's crown lay beside her pillow—she would not wear it today.

She held the obsidian patch in her hand, her fingertips stroking back and forth over the smooth surface of the gemstone.

The obsidian did not glow, but it absorbed the dark red light from the crater; the tiny natural indentation on its surface resembled a pupil the size of a needle tip under the light.

The door pushed open.

Drogon walked in, in his dragon-man form. His tail swayed slowly and heavily behind him.

The newly grown reverse scale on his left chest shimmered with dark gold Bloodline patterns under the Dragonglass Lamp—the silver-gray trim along the edges of the patterns was clearer than before the reverse scale had shattered, like a circle of ultra-fine silver thread carved into the scale.

Daenerys did not look up. Her voice was calm, but the end of it was slightly heavy.

"Two more ravens have arrived from the North. Fewer than two hundred men are still alive at The Nights Watch fortress of Eastwatch. The Young Wolf's main force has just passed the Fist of the First Men. You go to the Wall—the fleet needs at least three days to reach Eastwatch. You must arrive first, alone, and face the Night King and his Ice Dragon for at least twelve hours."

"Twelve hours is enough. I'm not going to fight the Night King—I'm going to stall him. Stall him until the Northern coalition and the fleet arrive."

Drogon walked up to her. His tail gently coiled around her ankle—this was his habitual action before every expedition. It wasn't affection; it was confirmation. The pressure of the tail coiling around her was a little heavier than usual.

"The Ice Dragon's ice crystal core is in its throat; the System says it can only be broken by a close-range Ice-Fire Fusion Dragon Breath. The Fusion Dragon Breath consumes too much; I have to test it once to see if my body, with the newly grown reverse scale, can handle it."

Daenerys finally looked up. Her violet eyes stared straight into his slit pupils.

"Test it once. If the consumption exceeds what the reverse scale can withstand—then retreat. You promised me that if the situation gets out of control, you would fly back."

"I promise. But if the Fusion Dragon Breath succeeds—the Night King's Ice Dragon will be crippled. Without the Ice Dragon, his army of wights will be held back by the Northern coalition's Dragonglass weapons at the breach in the Wall for a long time. By the time you arrive with the fleet, the beachhead will be cleared."

She picked up the valyrian steel chain from beside the pillow. She hadn't used it for a long time.

The chain shimmered with a dark silver light under the Dragonglass Lamp; the ultra-fine bloodstain on the chain link was still there—a permanent mark left when he established the blood bond with the blood of his reverse scale on the ramparts of Meereen.

She placed the chain into his palm. She closed his fingers around it. Then, she pressed his hand, along with the chain, against the newly grown reverse scale on his chest. Her palm pressed against the chain, and the chain pressed against the reverse scale.

"Take the chain with you. It's not to lock you—it's to remind you that someone is waiting for you to return to Dragonstone to unlock it. The reverse scale has just grown back; don't let it shatter again."

Drogon looked down at the chain she had pressed against his reverse scale. The coldness of the chain seeped through the scales, mingling with the warmth of her palm.

"I'll keep the chain. As for the person who unlocks it—it will be you. The day I return, you will put the chain back on."

He wrapped the chain around his left forearm. The friction between the scales and the valyrian steel chain links produced a very faint metallic sound. He turned and walked toward the door.

Daenerys said one last thing behind him. Her voice was very soft, but the emotional fluctuations transmitted through the Blood-Oath Resonance betrayed her—beneath that layer of calm lay a very deep, very dark fear that she herself probably didn't want to admit.

"Don't let the reverse scale shatter again. My chain mark is engraved on that scale."

Drogon paused for a step at the doorway. The tip of his tail gently released her ankle.

"I know."

Dragonstone Harbor. Before dawn.

The Dothraki Cavalry were leading their warhorses one by one onto the gangplank of the transport ships.

The warhorses were unaccustomed to the swaying of the sea; they snorted on the gangplank, their hooves scraping against the wooden planks with a rapid clattering sound.

Several young cavalrymen were grumbling in the dothraki language—cursing the horses for being disobedient, cursing the gangplank for being too narrow, and cursing the North for being too cold.

An old cavalryman with a missing front tooth was squatting nearby, sharpening a Dragonglass spearhead. Without raising his head, he threw out a remark: "It's good enough the horse isn't cursing you. When you fell off your horse during the charge on the beachhead last time, the horse even stopped to wait for you."

White Mane stood on the pier's boardwalk. The dragon-kiss sword at her waist was sheathed; the red-thread patch on the black silk scarf on her left wrist fluttered in the morning breeze—the armory's black leather had been soaked in oil for three full days, and she had received it this morning. She didn't change it. She said she was used to the red patch and would deal with it after the war.

Behind her were eight hundred cavalrymen, ready for departure. Tied to their saddles were Dragonglass spearheads just mined from the Dragonstone veins—each one polished by the Unsullied craftsmen to be sharp enough to pierce the ice armor of the Others, the spearheads gleaming with a cold, dark light in the dimness before dawn.

Drogon walked over from the direction of the castle. In his human form—he hadn't switched to his dragon-man form yet; in human form, it was easier to move through the busy group of cavalrymen on the pier without causing panic among the warhorses.

White Mane turned her head and saw him. Her amber eyes examined the newly grown reverse scale on his left chest. She reached out and poked that scale very lightly with her index finger. The Brand transmitted a very faint, stinging resonance, but it quickly faded.

"It still works. The Brand didn't sound an alarm."

Her voice was flat. But when she withdrew her index finger, it lingered on his scales for a moment—not a poke, but a very brief touch. Then she drew the dragon-kiss sword from her waist and held the scabbard up in front of him. The old scabbard's leather was cracked, the stitching was uneven in three places, and a red-thread patch was tied to the hilt. She waved the scabbard in front of him, as if showing off a trophy.

"The fleet is taking the sea route. You fly fast. See you at Eastwatch. If my cavalry encounters a storm at sea—I will have them throw that valyrian gold dragon coin you stole from Tywin's treasury last time into the sea as a sacrifice. The Dothraki believe in this."

Drogon's tail was not exposed in his human form, but he habitually flicked it behind his waist. He flicked at empty air.

"I'm keeping that gold coin. Throwing my own—no way. Throwing the Iron Bank debt documents is fine. That stuff is heavier than gold coins; if the Sea God accepts it, he might give us a few more favorable winds."

White Mane smiled.

It wasn't a slight curve of the mouth—it was that kind of extremely brief, genuine smile that flashed by as she turned. Her amber eyes curved when she smiled. She sheathed the dragon-kiss sword back into the old scabbard and turned to walk toward the cavalrymen boarding the ships. After walking three steps, without looking back, she threw out a sentence in the dothraki language. Her voice was half-scattered by the sea breeze, but the emotional fluctuation transmitted by the Brand betrayed her—that sentence was not an order, not a farewell, but a request she herself probably didn't realize how serious it was.

"Don't die on the Wall. I haven't practiced left-handed thrusts with you yet."

Drogon stood on the boardwalk, watching her back disappear into the group of cavalrymen. Then he raised his left hand and looked at the chain wrapped around his forearm. The chain swayed gently in the morning breeze, the clinking of the links producing a very faint jingling sound.