31: Chapter 31 Confession

The mask on Drogon's face cracked.

It didn't crack slowly; it shattered instantly. The pretentious expression of 'everything under control,' the effortless smile in front of White Mane, the cold and cruel gaze before the Great Masters—all were gone.

All that remained was a youth on the verge of collapse, tormented by his body's instincts, not knowing what to do.

His voice was hoarse, as if he was trying to suppress something.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I came. I only know—I feel terrible tonight.”

He pressed his palm against his chest, over his heart. The skin beneath the scales was scorching.

“It’s uncomfortable here. After the fight during the day, that intensity didn’t subside. My blood is hot. My bones are itchy. My mind is full of—”

His gaze uncontrollably fell on her neck. The artery. Slender. Fragile. Pulsating slightly in the candlelight. Completely different from White Mane's. White Mane's was bronzed and pulsed powerfully. Hers was white and pulsed rapidly.

Realizing what he was looking at, he abruptly turned his head away, his fingernails digging into his palms.

“—all sorts of chaotic images. I bit that woman’s neck. Then the system told me I triggered the dragon’s mating season. Mating. I’m not even a year old. This damn body.”

He almost gritted his teeth as he uttered the words “mating season.” Then, as if all his strength had been drained, he squatted down and clutched his head with both hands. His tail impatiently whipped the floor. Whap. Whap. Whap.

“Then I involuntarily walked to your place. I don’t know why—but when I reached your door, I felt a little cooler. When I entered your room, my heart rate slowed down a bit.”

He buried his face in his arms, his voice muffled.

“So—let me stay here for a while. Just a while.”

Daenerys watched him squatting on the ground.

She had seen him hatch. Seen him hunt sandworms. Seen him crush the hearts of The Undying. Seen him emerge from the flames as a youth. Seen him stab the Great Masters. Seen him ride on White Mane and bite her nape.

But she had never seen him like this.

Not the Dragon of Death. Not the Heart-Piercing Hand Blade. Not the Lioness Conqueror. Just a child, tormented by his body's instincts with nowhere to go, squatting on the ground, holding his head.

A long silence ensued.

Then she reached out, lightly touching the short black hair that fell across his forehead with her fingertips.

The candlelight flickered. The frequency of his tail swishing on the floor abruptly slowed.

Her voice was very soft, like she was coaxing a restless beast.

“I won’t chase you away. You can stay here.”

Drogon’s body visibly relaxed. His hands, which had been clutching his head, dropped. His tail no longer whipped the floor. Slowly, cautiously, it tentatively curled towards her calf, which was hanging by the bed.

It stopped less than an inch from her skin.

Waiting for permission.

Daenerys did not withdraw her leg.

Her fingertips were still in his hair, even gently rubbing the top of his head.

“The floor is cold. If you want—you can lean against the headboard. But only at the foot of the bed. No crossing the line.”

Drogon looked up at her. A flicker of disbelief, then surging gratitude and dependence, flashed in his vertical pupils.

He nodded, stiffly stood up, and with an extremely awkward posture, climbed onto the bed. He sat at the foot of the bed, leaning his back against the bedpost at the end. His legs were stretched out, and his tail was neatly coiled on his lap.

His body was still scorching hot. The muscles beneath his scales were still taut. But his heartbeat was no longer as wild as before.

His voice was hoarse. His back was to her.

“Mother. You don’t need to mind me. I’m just borrowing a corner of the bed. I’ll leave once this feeling passes.”

He didn't look at her, but the tip of his tail uncontrollably brushed against her ankle, which was covered by the quilt. Through the quilt. Through the linen. But he could feel the curve of her ankle.

Daenerys didn't dodge, nor did she speak.

She pulled the quilt up higher, covering half her face.

The candlelight finally burned out. The last wisp of smoke dissipated into the darkness. Moonlight streamed in from the porthole, barely outlining the two figures.

Daenerys leaned against the headboard, eyes closed. Her breathing was uneven; she wasn't asleep.

Drogon sat at the foot of the bed. His vertical pupils glowed with a faint golden light in the darkness. Two nearly extinguished but not entirely extinguished flames.

No one spoke for a long time.

Only the sound of the waves. The slight rocking of the ship. The mast creaking in the wind. The footsteps of the night sentinel came from the distant deck, then faded away.

Drogon’s tail, at some point, had stopped restraining itself. It had burrowed into the edge of the quilt, coiling around her calf. Not tightly. Just pressing against it. Like a cold-blooded animal seeking warmth.

Her leg didn't move.

Drogon closed his eyes and asked the system.

“What’s wrong with me? It’s not just mating season. I can feel something—it’s different.”

This time, the system didn't display a red warning. Instead, it was a longer text. Black text on a white background. Unusually calm.

“The host’s behavior does not solely stem from the mating season.”

“The dragon’s bonding system is far more complex than that of humans. For the host, the term ‘Mother’ is not just an address, but also a synonym for ‘core mate’ in dragon society.”

“Dragons have no incest taboo. In dragon social structures, the strongest male automatically regards the highest-ranking female in the group as the core mate.”

“Although the host grew up in human society, the underlying instincts of dragons were fully written in during the shapeshifting process.”

Drogon’s tail stiffened under the quilt.

“Your conquest of White Mane is a dragon’s instinctive behavior towards a ‘secondary mate’.”

“Your possessiveness and unease towards Daenerys are a dragon’s instinctive protection of its ‘core mate’.”

“Tonight’s loss of control is because you marked a secondary mate during the day. On an instinctive level, this means—you must immediately confirm that your core mate still accepts you. Otherwise, the dragon’s hierarchical system will be shaken.”

Drogon was silent for a long time. The moonlight moved an inch, then two inches, across his face.

“...So. I am a dragon. Not a human. No matter how much I resemble a human. Deep down—I am a dragon.”

“You are a dragon and also a transmigrator. The two are not contradictory. Your choices determine your essence.”

He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands. Five human fingers. Covered in dragon scales. His nails were black. Within his knuckles lay the power to tear steel apart.

He looked up, glancing at Daenerys’s profile in the darkness. Her breathing had finally stabilized. She was asleep.