48: Chapter 48 The Discovery of Missandei

Daytime. Missandei's office. The walls are covered with maps, aristocratic relationship charts, and rubbings of unknown runes.

Scrolls are piled high on the desk, stacked higher than Missandei sits. She peeks out from behind the pile of scrolls, her large amber eyes sparkling with scholarly excitement.

Illyse White Mane pushes the door open and enters. She places a cloth bag on the table, and several pieces of broken pottery pour out. Runes are engraved on the pottery shards.

“Found these in the sewers last night. They're not ice crystals, they're ceramic. The runes on them aren't exactly the same as the ones you rubbed before—there's an extra line.”

Missandei takes the pottery shards and pulls out a magnifying glass. She observes them carefully for a full minute, then suddenly looks up, nearly hitting White Mane's chin.

“An extra line—this is a plural beacon! The Main Rune is the positioning anchor, and the Sub-rune is the trigger condition. I've seen this system in the fragments of Old Valyria's military architecture!”

“It's the forbidden 'Invasion Warning Array,' specifically used to penetrate enemy fortresses and set magic traps before a siege. If the Main Rune is triggered, all Sub-runes will simultaneously detonate the pre-buried magic traps—”

White Mane interrupts her. “So how many Sub-runes do we have now?”

Missandei opens her notebook and flips through the pages rapidly. “You've found seven since last night. Two on the city walls, two in the sewers, and three at the base of the pyramid. According to standard configuration—at least four to six more are needed to cover the entire city.”

The corner of White Mane's mouth curls into a cold arc. It’s not a smile, but the expression of a hunter discovering that the prey hasn't run far yet.

“So, the person who placed the runes is still in this city, still looking for an opportunity to complete the array.”

“Exactly. And anyone capable of setting up such an array cannot be just an ordinary surrendered soldier—it would take wealth on the level of the Great Masters to access such forbidden magical knowledge.”

Missandei lowers her voice and leans closer to White Mane.

“It might even be an old Abyss Demon Realm mole in Meereen, hidden longer and deeper than that Grey Cloak. The Grey Cloak was a thug sent to carry out an assassination, but this person setting the array—is a player lurking right under our noses.”

A flash of killing intent flickers in White Mane's amber eyes. Controlled. Suppressed. Her voice is even softer than before.

“Continue the investigation. Give me the estimated positions of all Sub-runes before sunset today. Then—we'll go report to the Mother of Dragons. In one more day, it will be time to tell that money-grubbing dragon.”

Noon. The site of the former Meereen slave market. It is now called Freeman Square.

The wooden high platforms used for human trafficking have been dismantled, replaced by an obsidian monument. The word 'Freedom' is engraved on the monument.

Missandei wrote it in nineteen languages: Old Valyrian, dothraki language, Ghiscari, the common tongue, and fifteen other scripts that Drogon couldn't understand.

He called it 'font design.' Missandei called it a 'Universal Declaration.'

The square is crowded with freed slaves—queuing, registering for the army, receiving relief food. Many others just stand there in a daze—freedom came too fast, and they haven't learned how to use it yet.

An old woman stands before the monument, tracing the line of Dothraki for 'Freedom' over and over with her finger. She traces it a dozen times; her finger is cut by the sharp edges of the obsidian, but she doesn't stop.

Drogon stands on a nearby roof in human form, his black short trench coat having its hem shortened. His hands are in his pockets, and his tail swishes lazily behind him. His vertical pupils scan the square, moving from one stall to another.

His gaze stops at the edge of the crowd.

A fat merchant huddles in a corner. A former Great Master; his property was confiscated, but he wasn't liquidated. He has changed into a common merchant's Grey Cloak and is clutching a crumpled piece of parchment, whispering something to several newly arrived freed slaves.

Those slaves look confused. Some nod, while others hesitate.

Drogon drops from the roof. Not a jump, but a direct fall. He lands in front of the fat merchant, silent upon impact, toes touching the ground, tail swishing level behind him.

The fat merchant looks up and sees those golden vertical pupils. The color drains from his face instantly. “You, you—”

“What are you doing?” Drogon's voice is soft, but everyone within ten paces hears him. It’s not the volume; it’s the silence. When he speaks, all surrounding sounds instinctively stop.

“I, I'm helping them find work—”

“Finding work? The procedures for finding work are at the registration office on the east side of the square. Only an employment contract stamped by Miss Missandei is legal. That paper of yours—” He extends his tail, curling a piece of parchment out of the fat merchant's sleeve and unfolding it.

The terms are written densely in tiny script: sixteen-hour workdays, half the monthly salary deducted for 'room and board,' no responsibility for work-related injuries. The contract term—permanent.

He holds the parchment in front of the fat merchant's face. “—Doesn't look very legal to me. The last time I saw a paper like this in Yunkai, I crushed that Great Master's remains. Do you want to give me one too?”

The fat merchant wets his pants, the hem of his Grey Cloak becoming soaked. He kneels on the ground, kowtowing repeatedly. “I wouldn't dare! I wouldn't dare! I'll go to the registration office right now!”

Drogon crumples the contract into a ball and tosses it casually into a nearby torch. The flames swallow the parchment, and a green flare flickers—the paper used cheap ink containing sulfur. Before turning to leave, he drops one last sentence.

“Remember. Meereen is a dragon's nest now. In my nest, use my rules. My rules are simple—don't make me think of the former Great Masters.”

The fat merchant kowtows even faster. The dull thud of his forehead hitting the stone slabs echoes across the square.

Just as he is about to leave the square, a voice chases after him from behind.

“My Lord. Lord Drogon.”

He turns. A young woman stands three paces away, about twenty years old with bronze skin.

“My name is Kesha. I was rescued from Yunkai by you. This—I fired it myself. It's for you.”

She offers a small clay dragon with both hands. There are calluses on her fingers from hard labor. Her fingertips tremble slightly. Not from fear, but from nervousness, afraid he won't accept it.

Drogon looks down at the small clay dragon, his tail swishing gently behind him. He doesn't take it.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are the dragon. You are the Mother of Dragons' consort. You are the one who liberated us.”

The corner of Drogon's mouth lifts slightly. “Consort? Who told you the word consort?”

Kesha's face flushes slightly, but her eyes do not dodge. “The city... everyone says so. They say that day on the city walls, the dragon and the Mother of Dragons established a blood bond. Everyone saw the golden light.”

Drogon takes the clay dragon, his tail instinctively curling at a tiny angle. He fiddles with the pair of ruby eyes with his finger. The rubies are too fragmented to be valuable, but they were cut very carefully. Picked from a pile of scraps.

To be able to grind scrap gems into circles with scissors, her craftsmanship is not bad.

“Good craftsmanship. Where did you find the gems for the eyes?”

“I picked them from the scrap pile of an abandoned jewelry workshop. They're too small to be worth anything. But for a dragon's eyes... they're just right.”

He carefully puts the clay dragon into the inner pocket of his trench coat. Previously, his favorite piece of dragonglass was kept there.

Now, he swallows the dragonglass directly to make room. Then he fishes a silver stag from his pocket—Westeros currency, found in the Yunkai treasury and never spent—and presses it into Kesha's hand.

“This is the commission. In the future, if someone asks you to make a dragon carving, charge this price. Remember—you are no longer a slave; you are an artisan. Artisans charge money for their work. That's the rule.”

Kesha clutches the silver coin, her eyes reddening, but she doesn't cry. She nods forcefully. “Thank you, My Lord. Will you come to the square again in the future?”

Drogon looks into her grayish-green eyes. His vertical pupils linger on her eyes for a moment, then sweep over her arms—muscle lines left by years of labor. Firm. Healthy. A bland prompt pops up in the depths of his consciousness from the system. He doesn't look at the content and closes it immediately.

“Not necessarily. But if someone bullies you, go to the entrance of the Great Pyramid and shout my name. My ears are very sharp.”

He turns and leaves, his tail instinctively curling at a tiny angle as he walks away.