30: Chapter 30 Corridor

Two in the morning. The corridor was empty.

The night watch had just changed shifts. The old guards had gone back to sleep, and the new ones were not yet fully awake.

Moonlight poured in through the portholes, carving strips of silver light onto the wooden floor.

Drogon walked out barefoot. He wore no shirt, only a pair of black linen trousers.

The fine scales covering his upper body shimmered with a fluid luster in the moonlight, like mercury.

He walked close to the wall. His tail clung to the floor, trying his best to make no sound. His soles still pressed a faint creak out of the wooden planks. Every time it made a sound, he would pause for half a second.

When he reached the corner, his tail accidentally swept over an empty wooden bucket. The bucket toppled onto the deck and rolled three times with a clatter.

Drogon pressed his whole body against the wall, his slit pupils narrowing into lines as he listened to the surroundings.

No footsteps. No one had been woken up.

He let out a long breath.

"I must be crazy. Someone capable of taking on a two-thousand-man mercenary company alone is now acting like a thief on his own ship. And the goal is just to—"

He thought for a moment.

"To confirm the bond. Yes. The bond. This reason works. Remember, that's the reason."

The door to the captain's cabin. Dark oak. There was no light in the door gap. She must be asleep.

Drogon stood at the door. His hand raised, hovering three inches above the doorknob. He didn't let it fall.

His heartbeat was too loud. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The frequency was ridiculously fast. He suspected she could hear it even through the door.

He lowered his hand. Then raised it again. Then lowered it. He repeated this seven or eight times.

"Maybe I should just jump into the sea. Just say I went fishing. Although dragons eat cooked food—I could say I changed my taste. No. That's too fake. Then just knock? What to say? 'Mother, I can't sleep, I came to discuss tomorrow's battle plan with you'? Discussing battle plans at two in the morning?"

His tail moved on its own. The tip flicked up high, aimed at the door panel, and tapped three times lightly.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Drogon stared wide-eyed at his own tail.

"You motherf—"

A voice came from inside. Tired. With a hint of surprise. But she was definitely not asleep.

"Drogon? Come in."

Drogon swallowed hard. He pushed the door open.

The layout of the captain's cabin was three times larger than his room. Outside was the reception area, and inside was the private bedroom. The partition curtain was half-drawn.

There was only one candle left in the bedroom. The flame flickered, gilding everything in a warm yellow.

Daenerys was leaning against the headboard. Her long silver-gold hair was spread on the pillow. She was holding a book. The book was upside down.

When she saw Drogon walk in, she was first surprised—her eyes widened—and then she quickly pulled up the quilt to cover herself.

Before she was covered, Drogon had already seen it.

A white linen camisole nightdress. Very thin. Not a battle robe. Not a royal robe. It was for sleeping. The shoulder straps were as thin as two fingers.

Below her collarbone, the candlelight danced on her skin.

Her cheeks flushed slightly. Her voice tried to be as calm as possible.

"It's so late, is something the matter? Is there a problem with the fleet?"

Drogon stood at the bedroom doorway. Frozen.

His slit pupils uncontrollably swept over her silhouette. The scattered silver hair spread on the pillow like melted silver. The hollow of her shoulder. Her collarbone. Those purple eyes, softer than during the day, yet still sharp.

The candlelight danced on her face. Shadows and light alternated. Her fingers gripped the edge of the quilt, her knuckles slightly white.

The quilt was pulled up high, but it couldn't hide the curve of her shoulders.

"It's over."

He said to the system in his mind.

"The problem is worse than I imagined. She isn't wearing her battle robe. She's wearing a nightdress. And she smells like—"

Not perfume. It was evaporated by body heat. Lavender. Dragonfire. And a scent unique to her that only a dragon could smell.

It was completely different from White Mane's. White Mane smelled of rust and musk. She smelled of sea salt and charcoal.

His tail began to draw circles behind him. A rustling friction sound. The floor had already been drawn with countless complex geometric patterns by it.

Drogon took a deep breath. He tried to make his voice sound normal.

He pulled something out of his trouser pocket. The old hair accessory from the day. The one that hadn't had the ruby set properly yet.

Holding it up, his voice was half a tone higher than usual.

"A hair accessory. I promised to change the gem for you during the day. I couldn't sleep at night, so I got up to fix it. Just finished it. I wanted to bring it over for you to see. Yes. Fixing the hair accessory. Fixed it until now."

Daenerys glanced at the hair accessory.

The old gem hadn't even been removed.

She glanced at his bare upper body again. Moonlight hit the scales on his chest from the porthole, dark light flowing.

Then she looked at his tail—drawing countless complex geometric patterns on the floor. Circles within circles. Figure-eights. And a heart shape drawn at some unknown time.

"Drogon."

"Hmm?"

"When you fix hair accessories—do you not wear clothes?"

Drogon looked down at himself. Scales. Collarbone. Abdominal muscles. Bare feet. He was only wearing trousers.

"It's too hot. Dragons have high body temperatures. Heat dissipation. Physical reasons."

System pop-up: "Host lying detected. Verdict: Poor. But the other party did not expose it. Suggest immediate retreat, reorganize language."

"Received. Retr—"

His feet didn't move. His body didn't listen to his brain. His legs didn't listen to his brain. His tail listened even less. All organs were executing another command. Not from the system. It was from instinct.

"Do not retreat. She didn't chase you away. Approach."

Drogon took a step forward. And another. By the third step, he stopped at a distance of one arm's length from the bedside.

The candlelight cast his profile onto the wall. The tail in the shadow was still swaying.

He stood straight, but deep within his slit pupils, suppressed undercurrents surged. His Adam's apple rolled up and down once.

Daenerys gripped the quilt tighter. Her gaze did not move from his eyes. Her voice tried to remain calm, but the end of it had a tremor she didn't even notice.

"You said you fixed it. Let me see."

Drogon handed over the hair accessory. She reached out to take it. Her fingertips touched his knuckles.

Her fingertips were cool. His knuckles were hot.

The temperature difference was too great. Both of them froze for a moment.

She took the hair accessory. Looked down. The old gem was still on it. Not changed. No changes whatsoever. This was an un-repaired hair accessory.

She looked up. Stared directly into his eyes.

"This gem—it's still the original one. You didn't change it."

A low growl came from Drogon's throat. Like a beast with its neck choked.

"I—"

"You didn't fix it at all. You used it as an excuse."

Her voice was very soft. Not a question. A statement. Every word was steady.

"Drogon. You came to see me in the middle of the night. What is it really for?"