27: Chapter 27 The Lioness in the Corridor

Middle of the night. Palace hallway.

Drogon had changed into a new black trench coat, rummaged out of the Great Masters' wardrobe. It was a bit too big. He had rolled up the sleeves twice. The hem dragged on the floor; he couldn't be bothered to trim it.

His tail finally stopped thrashing about—after Daenerys Targaryen had seen it in the bathroom, the tail had behaved for an hour, remaining on high alert, swishing slowly and rhythmically behind him.

He was planning to find a place to catch up on sleep. He had fought a battle today, bitten someone, burned a city, and moved a treasury. Exhausting.

Passing a corner.

A tall figure emerged from the shadows. Her footsteps made no sound. Dothraki never make noise when they walk; it was a habit formed on the plains.

White Mane.

She had changed out of her damaged armor, wearing a simple sleeveless leather cuirass, revealing two bronze arms.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Moonlight streamed in through the window, slicing her profile in two—half lit, half dark. Her amber eyes watched him, staring, unblinking.

"You promised me—the cavalry regiment belongs to you. But you haven't told me yet—what you want me to do."

Drogon stopped and tilted his head to look at her. His slit pupils glimmered in the darkness, golden, brighter than the moonlight.

"What to do? Simple. Tomorrow morning, go and swear allegiance to my mother. From now on—you are responsible for her safety. You will execute her commands. Her enemies—you and I. We will kill them together."

White Mane was silent, then nodded slowly. Her silver-white braids slid over her shoulders.

"Fine. But there is one condition."

She walked up to Drogon and bent down, bringing her face close to his. She was half a head taller than him; this movement almost engulfed him in her shadow.

He could smell the fresh ointment on her, mixed with leather and her own scent. Her amber eyes stared straight into his slit pupils.

"That mark—the one you bit—tell me. What does it mean?"

Her fingers, separated by the bandage, lightly touched the back of her neck. As her fingertips pressed against the bandage, a dark golden light flickered beneath it.

"I can feel it. It's not an ordinary wound. It makes me... want to be near you. Just now, when you were in the vault and I was outside, I knew which direction you were in. I knew even with my eyes closed. I knew how far away you were. It makes me smell your scent. Not with my nose. With this."

She pressed the bandage on the back of her neck again.

Her voice lowered, filled with confusion and resistance.

"I don't like this feeling."

The corners of Drogon's mouth curled up. He didn't back away, nor did he push her away. The moonlight sliced his face in two as well—half lit, half dark. On the lit side, the curve of his mouth was dangerous.

His tail flicked twice behind him, then he extended his index finger and gently poked her forehead. The pad of his finger pressed against the center of her brow. She didn't dodge, but when his finger touched her, her pupils constricted.

"The strongest female warrior of the Dothraki—has things she fears too?"

White Mane didn't move.

"Rest assured. It's nothing bad. It's just a... small insurance policy. To ensure you won't betray me. To ensure you always remember—whose person you are."

He withdrew his finger, walked past her, and continued forward. As the tip of his tail passed by her side, it unconsciously brushed across the back of her hand, like a dragonfly touching the water, once, then it retracted.

"As for the specific meaning—after you are truly willing to pledge your loyalty to my mother, I will tell you."

White Mane was behind him, lowering her voice.

"Are you not afraid that I will kill you?"

Drogon didn't look back; he waved his hand lazily. His tail made a "bring it on" gesture at her—the tip of the tail curled into a hook and beckoned twice.

"You are welcome to try. It will be a good chance for me to see—just what kind of lioness my mark can tame."

The sound of footsteps gradually faded away. The sound of his tail dragging on the floor also grew lighter. Swish. Swish. Swish.

"Good night, Commander White Mane."

White Mane stood alone in the hallway. She raised her hand to touch the bandage on the back of her neck. Her fingertips could clearly feel the slightly burning brand beneath the bandage. It wasn't pain; it was heat. That kind of heat radiating from within. Her veins were pulsing—once, twice, three times—the same frequency as his heartbeat. She knew it.

She bit her lip, her amber eyes flashing in the darkness.

"Long-tailed monster..."

Her voice was very low, almost inaudible.

"I must find out. Just what you are."