54: Chapter 54 Anxiety in the Treasure Vault

Something is wrong in the treasury tonight.

It isn't that the gold coins are missing. It isn't that the gems have been moved. It is the atmosphere.

The dark golden light of the dragon glass shards is still soft, and the four small hills of gems are still neatly arranged by color—rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. The golden statue of the Ghiscari Emperor remains head-down in the corner, with its rear end stuck up in the air.

But Drogon is pacing back and forth.

In human form. His trench coat is off, thrown onto a pile of gold coins. The scales on his bare upper body are slightly flared, like the fur of a cat when it is agitated.

The light in his slit pupils is brighter and more unstable than usual—dark gold and ghostly blue flickering alternately in his eyes at a rapid frequency.

His tail lashes about restlessly behind him, making the gold coins clatter as they are swept aside, already carving a shallow trench through the pile.

He walks back and forth in front of the golden bed. Three steps across, three steps back. When he turns, his tail strikes the edge of the bed with a sharp crack. A few gold coins are jarred loose, rolling off the golden bed and clattering into the corner.

A system pop-up appears. The text is yellow.

"Current physiological status report for host: It has been over seventy-two hours since the last battle. The dragon race's mating cycle has reached its peak. Interaction with a female this afternoon triggered a natural focus on a healthy genetic carrier, and unreleased hormones are still circulating."

Drogon stops in his tracks. He presses his hand to his forehead. His palm is scorching hot. The edges of his scales feel slightly sharp.

He takes a deep breath. The air in the treasury is dry, mixed with the scent of gold dust and old stone. He lowers his hand from his forehead and taps his fingers twice against his thigh.

"Forget it. I'll go out for a patrol. Burning off some energy is better than pacing around in here."

He bends down to pick up his trench coat. He shakes off the gold coins and puts it on. He doesn't button it. His tail extends from the hem of the coat, lashing once behind him. Then, he pushes open the bronze doors of the treasury.

In the corridor outside, White Mane happens to be passing by on patrol. She sees him, and her amber eyes linger on his face for a second. Then, they fall on his tail—the tip of the tail is trembling slightly.

That is his specific physiological reaction when suppressing something. She has seen this trembling before. Last time, on the battlements of Yunkai, before he bit the back of her neck, his tail had been shaking just like this.

"Where are you going?"

"Patrol. Don't follow."

He walks past her. His tail brushes against her calf, extremely light and fast. It isn't flirting. It is comfort. It is as if he is saying: It's nothing. Don't ask.

White Mane stands where she is, watching him disappear at the end of the corridor. She raises a hand to touch the bandage on the back of her neck. The brand is slightly warm. It isn't danger. It is something more ambiguous—as if he is suppressing something. Suppressing it very hard. So hard that the brand itself feels taut.

"...The mating cycle has come again."

She continues her patrol. Her footsteps are a half-beat slower than before.

The night market in the Free Folk Square is bustling.

It isn't the kind of market from the era of the Great Masters where they sold silk and spices. It is a different kind of bustle.

Small stalls set up by the freed slaves. Handmade pottery. Grilled meat skewers. Surplus vegetables distributed from the estates of the Great Masters. Cloth bags made from old clothes. There are also people selling herbal tea, medicinal herbs, and homemade candles. Torches light up the square, and smoke and sparks rise into the night sky. The air is filled with the aroma of grilled meat, sweat, and cheap perfume.

In one corner, someone is playing a Dothraki three-stringed instrument. The music is out of tune, but no one minds.

Drogon walks along the edge of the square. In human form. The collar of his trench coat is turned up. His tail hangs low behind him. His slit pupils sweep across the crowd casually. Most people recognize him and hurriedly bow their heads in greeting or step aside.

Someone tries to approach to speak, but he turns them away with a single look. He doesn't want to talk tonight.

The restless heat hasn't dissipated.

He walks one lap. Two laps. His heartbeat is still fast. His temples are throbbing. He can feel the blood vessels beneath his scales swelling.

The high-temperature bloodline of the dragon race is restless. It isn't a big deal. It is just his body urging him—find a mate. Mark. Release. The system calls this the peak of the mating cycle. He translates it for himself as: In heat.

Then, he smells that scent.

It isn't the aroma of grilled meat. It isn't the mint of the herbal tea. It is flowers. Jasmine. Very strong. Very gaudy. It isn't the complex fragrance profile blended by the perfumers of the nobility. It is extract essence that costs a few copper coins a bottle. Cheap. Pungent.

But it is a floral scent, and it strikes directly at a certain area in his brain that is currently burning hot—like someone dropping a bead of water into a pot of boiling oil. It explodes.

The source of the scent is a small, temporarily erected shed. Canvas. An old bathtub. Above it, written crookedly in the dothraki language, is "Bathhouse"—a simple bathhouse set up by the freed slaves themselves. It is specifically for people who have been working and sweating in the square to rinse off.

Shared by men and women. Two copper coins each time. Plenty of hot water.

The curtain of the shed is lifted. A woman walks out.

It isn't Kaisa. It is another freed slave woman he has never seen before. About twenty years old. Deep olive skin. Wet, black curly hair clings to her exposed shoulders. Her figure is full. She has the physique of someone who has done ten years of manual labor in the estates of the Great Masters—fed enough but not well-fed, with fat and muscle mixed together.

She is wearing a simple linen bathrobe and is drying her hair with a towel. The bathrobe is wet and clings to her body. The neckline is gaping open. Water droplets drip from the ends of her hair, rolling down along the curve of her collarbone.

She looks up and sees Drogon. She freezes completely.

"Lord Drogon!" She hurriedly bows to salute, and the neckline of her bathrobe opens even wider due to the movement. A patch of glistening water is revealed beneath her collarbone, and the heat of having just bathed still clings to her skin. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know you would come here—"

Drogon's slit pupils uncontrollably sweep over the curves outlined beneath her bathrobe. His throat feels slightly dry. His tail stiffens for an instant behind him.

His sense of smell automatically amplifies the scent on her—jasmine essence, the steam of hot water, the warm body odor unique to a young woman after bathing. It isn't perfume. It is pheromones.

His dragon instinct is analyzing her genetic quality: Healthy. Of age. Unmarked. Suitable as a temporary mate.

"No need to apologize. I am just passing by."

His voice is lower than usual. There is a layer of hoarseness to it. He doesn't even notice it himself.

The woman straightens up. The shoulder strap of her bathrobe has slipped off at some point, revealing half of her collarbone and more skin. She hurriedly pulls the strap back up, her movements a bit flustered, but there is no fear in her eyes—only nervousness, and a kind of anticipation that is almost sacrificial.

She served as a maid in the estates of the Great Masters for ten years. She knows how to show submission to a master. But she has never seen a master like this—young, barefoot, with slit pupils glowing in the moonlight. He liberated her. She has nothing else to repay him with.

"My Lord... I served as a maid in the estates of the Great Masters for ten years. I know how to make someone feel good. You liberated me. I have nothing else to repay you with—" Her voice is shaking, but she tries to maintain her composure. "—Please let me serve you. Right here in the tent. You don't need to be responsible. It's just... it's just that I want to."

She lifts her chin slightly, exposing her neck. That is the instinct of a maid—knowing how to show submission to a master.

There is still an undried water droplet on her neck. The droplet rolls down along her collarbone, into the neckline of the bathrobe, and disappears. The linen of the bathrobe is very thin; after absorbing water, it is translucent and clings to her skin. Her breathing makes her chest rise and fall. The glistening water beneath her collarbone rises and falls with it.

Drogon takes a step forward.

Reason sounds an alarm in his brain; it is the voice of the system, and also his own.

"Refuse. Immediately. The way this woman looks at you is different from Kaisa. Kaisa is gratitude plus reverence plus a little bit of secret love—but this is not. There is no reverence in her eyes. There is something else in her eyes. It is an invitation."

"Mixed with nervousness and anticipation and a little bit of reckless madness. Your mating cycle is misinterpreting all normal social signals as mating signals—"

Another voice wells up from the depths of his consciousness. Lower. Deeper. It is not reason. It is the dragon.

"She is free. You liberated her. She is willing. A dragon does not need to suppress its appreciation for beautiful things. She invites you into the tent. You just go in and drink a cup of herbal tea. The tea is cool, your body is hot, it evens out."

"And—she just finished bathing. Her hair is still dripping water. The water droplet on her neck is very beautiful. How long has it been since you really looked at a woman? Not the gratitude like Kaisa's, but another kind. Jasmine. You didn't like jasmine before, but tonight is different. Tonight, your nose is choosing for you."

Drogon takes another step forward. He reaches out. His fingertips touch her exposed shoulder.

The skin is warm. Damp. Smooth. Like freshly shucked shellfish meat.

Her body temperature is lower than his, but it is rising—warmed by the temperature of his fingertips.

He can feel her capillaries slightly dilating beneath her skin. It is a physiological response. It is not a disguise.

She doesn't dodge. Her breathing speeds up. The shoulder strap of the bathrobe slips off completely, revealing her entire collarbone and more skin. There is still a fine mist of water remaining on her skin from her bath. There is nervousness in her eyes, but no fear. Only a kind of almost devout invitation.

The system frantically pops up windows. Red text. Full-screen warnings. The alarm sound screeches in his consciousness.

"Warning! Warning! The host is about to trigger the dragon race 'temporary mate' behavior! Although this behavior is a social norm for the dragon race, given that the host has signed a core mate contract, Daenerys will perceive the host's intense emotional fluctuations and changes in heart rate through the blood bond resonance!"

"She may not perceive the specific images, but she will definitely perceive that the host's excitement and possessiveness are directed at someone other than her!"

Drogon's fingers freeze on her shoulder.

An image flashes through his brain. It is not a memory. It is the blood bond playing it for him—Daenerys sitting at her vanity. Makeup removed. Her silver hair loose. Her fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop. On the table lies a black valyrian steel chain.

She is waiting for him to return. Her heartbeat is transmitted through the blood bond—steady, but too fast. She is enduring. She is sitting at the vanity tonight, her fingers tapping on the tabletop, with a chain lying on the table. She is waiting for him to return. She knows everything.

He pulls his hand back abruptly. The movement is as fast as if he had been scalded. He takes two steps back, knocking over a small stool. The stool hits the mattress with a dull thud. His tail tears a rift in the tent fabric. The canvas makes a ripping sound.

His voice is hoarse. It is as if he is speaking to himself.

"No. I have a mate."

The female slave is startled by his sudden retreat. She freezes in place. Her hand grips the neckline of her bathrobe tightly. A flash of hurt crosses her eyes—not the embarrassment of being rejected, but something deeper.

Someone who has been a maid for ten years, for the first time, proactively wants to use her own body to repay someone, and she is rejected. It isn't because she isn't enticing. It is because he has a mate.

"My Lord... I just wanted to... You don't need to be responsible—"

"You don't understand."

Drogon lifts the tent curtain. A cold wind blows in. Half of the jasmine scent in the tent is blown away.

He stands by the curtain, his slit pupils gleaming with dark golden light in the moonlight. He does not look back at the female slave. It is not that he dares not.

It is that he cannot bear to. She did nothing wrong. She just wanted to express her gratitude in her own way. The one who is wrong is him.

"She will know. She might not know it is you. But she will definitely know that I had thoughts about someone else tonight. That is her right. Her only right."

He leaves the tent as if fleeing. The clamor of the night market continues. The aroma of grilled meat still drifts. The Dothraki three-stringed instrument is still playing an out-of-tune song. But his heartbeat is faster than when he was besieging the city.

The mate mark on his chest is slightly hot—not painful. It is her perceiving. She might not know exactly what happened at this moment, but she definitely knows that in the middle of the night, in some place she doesn't know, his heart rate suddenly accelerated for several dozen seconds. Then it suddenly dropped back. And then it took him nearly an hour to walk back to the pyramid.

Usually, it only takes him thirty seconds to fly back. Tonight, he doesn't dare to fly. He is afraid she will hear the sound of dragon wings cutting through the air—she will push open the window to look. He will see her standing by the window. And then he won't know how to explain.