39: Chapter 39 The Silence on the City Wall

The fighting on the ramparts ceased.

It was not a ceasefire.

It was because everyone—Great Masters Private Soldiers, Unsullied, Dothraki Cavalry—had witnessed the entire process of that great dragon falling and rising, from being ambushed to crushing its enemy.

The golden light illuminated the ramparts as if it were day, making every piece of rubble, every bloodstain, and the expression on every person's face clearly visible.

When the dragon's might bore down, the Great Masters Private Soldiers were the first to kneel.

Weapons fell to the ground, and no one picked them up.

When one private soldier knelt, his knee struck a crossbow bolt; the tip pierced his lower leg, but he did not move. He dared not move.

Next were the Dothraki Mercenaries. Not White Mane's people, but those in the city hired by the Great Masters.

They recognized strength. The one before them was not just strong. It was a god.

A mercenary dropped his arakh, the tip stabbing into his own instep, but he did not look down.

The Unsullied did not kneel. But Grey Worm struck his spear against the ground. The butt of the spear hit the stone slabs with a snap.

Eight thousand spears behind him struck the ground in unison. It was not a demonstration of force. It was a salute.

The sound wave of the spear butts hitting the ground traveled from the ramparts, down to the city, to every rank of the Unsullied phalanx.

Although the Unsullied in the front rank could not see what was happening on the ramparts, they also struck the ground simultaneously.

They did not see. They did not need to see. The sound of the spear butts was enough.

White Mane rushed onto the ramparts.

Her arakh was covered in nicks. The blade was chipped, and a small fragment of bronze was embedded in the notch.

She had hacked a hand-breadth deep crack into the bronze city gate, the metal at the edges of the fissure crushed into thin sheets by repeated strikes.

The webbing between her thumb and forefinger was split. Blood dripped from the hilt, running down the sheaths of the two valyrian steel daggers on the crossguard.

When she reached the last step, she happened to see Drogon rising from the golden light, crushing Ice Scum and tossing it into his mouth.

She stopped. Her arakh hung at her side. She was panting heavily.

A few strands of her silver-white braid had come loose, sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. Her amber eyes stared at that massive black silhouette.

The brand on the back of her neck was still burning. But it was no longer a warning of danger. It was a different kind of heat. It made her heart skip three beats faster.

Blood was still dripping from her hand, but she didn't feel it.

He was still alive.

She leaned against the battlement. She raised her hand to cover the back of her neck. The brand beneath the bandage was pulsing. The frequency was synchronized with his heartbeat.

"... Long-tailed bastard," she whispered.

A very slight curve appeared at the corner of her mouth. It wasn't a smile. But it was close.

The gates of Meereen were thrown open. Not hacked open by White Mane—but opened from within by the Unsullied.

The Great Masters Private Soldiers had given up resistance. They knelt on both sides of the street.

Weapons were piled into small hills. Arakhs, spears, crossbow bolts, shields. All piled up at the street corners.

Only a few people remained on the ramparts. Barristan stood guard at the stone steps. Grey Worm stood by the siege ladder. White Mane leaned against the battlement. Missandei crouched in a corner, clutching her notebook, not daring to approach. No one dared to approach.

Drogon lowered his head. His massive dragon head slowly approached Daenerys. His movements were extremely gentle. The tip of his snout touched her forehead. The hot air he exhaled stirred the loose strands of her silver hair.

The stray hairs on her forehead drifted gently in the airflow, rising and falling, brushing against the tip of his snout.

"Daenerys," his voice was extremely low. Only she could hear it. "Just now, when I was about to die—there was only one sentence in my mind."

He paused. A low purring sound came from his throat. It wasn't nervousness. He was gathering his thoughts.

"That half-finished hair accessory—I hadn't finished it for her yet."

Her eyes reddened. She reached out to stroke the scales on the bridge of his nose.

There was a tiny crack on that scale. It was left by the frost erosion from earlier. It hadn't fully healed. As her fingertips touched it, she could feel the edges of the crack slightly pricking her skin.

"Idiot. The hair accessory can be fixed anytime."

"It's different. That is my thing. You are also my thing. But just saying it is useless; that piece of filth from earlier made me realize. There are too many things in this world that can kill me. If I die, what will you do?"

He raised his right foreclaw. A claw tip gently traced the scales on his left forelimb. There was a reverse scale there.

The only reverse-growing, most fragile scale on a dragon's body. Its direction was opposite to the other scales.

Its color was deeper. Almost pure black. The edges of the scale had fine, serrated patterns.

The claw tip pierced beneath the reverse scale.

A drop of thick dragon blood, burning with a dark golden flame, slowly seeped out.

The bead of blood hung on the scale. It did not roll off. Inside, tiny golden specks of light flowed.

It was like stardust sprinkled into molten gold. The blood from the reverse scale was the most precious on a dragon—a single drop of reverse-scale blood could match the energy of an entire dragon glass vein.

"The blood bond of the dragon race. Drink my blood, and there will be a two-way link between you and me. You will be able to perceive my location, my emotions, and whether I am safe. And I can block one fatal injury for you."

Daenerys was stunned. She looked at that drop of dragon blood. Then she looked into his massive dragon eyes. The nebula within his pupils was slowly rotating. The vertical slit in the center of the nebula narrowed to a thin line. He was nervous. He was nervous.

"What you said—is it the—mating contract of the dragon race?"

Her voice was very soft. But every word was clear.

A rare flash of nervousness crossed Drogon's dragon eyes. His tail stiffened behind him. It was as rigid as a stone pillar. The tip of his tail did not move.

"In the concept of the dragon race, that is what it means. But in human concepts, you can treat it as an advanced defensive technique. I will not use this to demand anything of you. You are still the Mother of Dragons. I am still your dragon."

He paused.

His voice dropped lower. His vertical pupils shifted their gaze. He looked at the stone slabs on the ramparts. His blood from earlier was still on the stone. Black. Frozen into ice crystals.

"—I just wanted to be sure. Whether, in your heart, I am only worth the price of a hair accessory."

She was silent. For a very, very long time.

The wind on the ramparts blew over. It stirred her high ponytail. A few stray hairs brushed against her cheek. She remembered the moment she rushed onto the ramparts.

There was no thought of the iron throne in her mind.

There was only one voice. He cannot die. He cannot die. He cannot die. Repeated over and over again.

It drowned out all thoughts about conquest, about the Seven Kingdoms, about the glory of the Targaryen family. Those obsessions that had been instilled in her since childhood—that she must reclaim the iron throne—were all submerged in that single moment. Only one voice remained.

He cannot die.

She reached out her hand. Palm upward. Fingers spread open. The veins on the inside of her wrist bulged slightly in the morning light. Slender. Fragile. Countless times thinner than dragon scales. The veins were pale blue. Beneath her fair skin, they looked like a thin blue river.

"Bite."

Two words.

In Drogon's dragon eyes, the nebula vortex suddenly accelerated its rotation.

With the lightest force, using two dragon fangs longer than daggers, he precisely made a light cut above the vein on her wrist. The wound was not deep.

But beads of blood seeped out. Three drops. Round. Shining deep red in the morning light. The blood beads rolled down the curve of her wrist and dripped onto his dragon fangs.

He dripped that drop of dark golden dragon blood from beneath his reverse scale onto her wound. The dragon blood touched her blood—emitting a slight sizzling sound. Like fire meeting oil. It was not rejection. It was fusion.