55: Chapter 55 The Chains in Front of the Dressing Table

Daenerys sat before the dressing table.

She had been sitting like this for an hour and a half. She wasn't reviewing petitions. She wasn't reading. She was just sitting. Her back was straight. Her fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop. Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm was the same as her heartbeat—too fast.

Over ninety beats per minute. It wasn't nervousness. It was waiting. Waiting made the heart beat faster. Waiting made her fingers tap on the tabletop unconsciously.

Her long, silver-gold hair was draped over her shoulders. She had removed her makeup. She wore that white linen nightgown. The nightgown had been washed many times, its edges slightly frayed, but she hadn't replaced it with a new one. Her bare feet pressed against the stone floor. Her toes curled slightly. It was cold.

Two things lay on the table.

A chain. It was pitch black, forged from valyrian steel. The links were interlocked. At the end was a hidden clasp that could be fastened around a wrist or ankle. The inside of the links had been polished to an extreme smoothness. There was no rust.

It glimmered with a cold, ghostly light in the candlelight—even after thousands of years, it still looked brand new.

A roll of ancient parchment was spread out beside the chain. It was written in Old Valyria. The script was dense. Beside it were annotations made by Missandei in the Common Tongue; the handwriting was elegant, every line neat and orderly.

Daenerys had read those annotations no fewer than twenty times. She had almost memorized them.

Her fingers continued to tap on the tabletop. A faint, subtle warmth radiated from her chest.

The blood bond was transmitting his heartbeat—it was faster. Beating very fast. It wasn't fighting, and it wasn't flying.

It was a different kind of excitement. She was very familiar with this excitement, because he would occasionally feel it when he was by her side.

That pattern of an accelerating heartbeat—first a period of steadiness, then a sudden increase, and then it maintained a high, slightly fluctuating rate. It wasn't the explosive sprint of a fight. It was longer, coming in waves. Tonight, he was experiencing it where she was not.

The heartbeat lasted for four minutes. Then it dropped abruptly. As if something had interrupted it. Then his heartbeat began to stabilize. He began to move. Very slowly. Like walking. Not flying. He was walking back to the pyramid. He had been walking for nearly an hour.

"He didn't dare to fly. He was afraid I would hear the sound of the wind."

Her fingers stopped.

She looked down at the chain. She reached out her left hand. She touched the links with her fingertip. The links were cold.

A property of valyrian steel—it conducts heat extremely slowly. It had been over three hours since she took it out from the secret vault, and it was still cold.

She ran her finger pads over the polished grooves on the inside of the links—hand-polished by craftsmen thousands of years ago, to ensure the chained dragon would not be injured. This was not an instrument of torture. It was a token of affection.

"In the name of love, I bind your body."

The inscription Missandei had translated. She recited it once. Recited it again. Then she withdrew her hand and continued to wait.

When the door was pushed open, the candle flame flickered. The firelight danced on the walls twice. The chain on the table was cast in flickering light and shadow by the swaying glow.

He walked in. His trench coat carried the scent of the night market—smoke from grilled meat, spice dust, and that jasmine fragrance. The kind that cost three coppers a bottle. It was pungent. You could smell it from far away.

His hair was messier than usual—not from flying, but from being raked by hands; he had run his fingers through his hair more than once. His tail hung behind him, hanging very low, the tip almost dragging on the ground. Normally, he wouldn't let his tail drag—he hated dirt. Tonight, he had forgotten.

He thought she was asleep.

She was not.

"You're back?" Daenerys didn't look up. Her voice was unnaturally calm—like her tone when rejecting the petitions of the Great Masters during court, but lighter, and more dangerous.

"You are an hour and a half later than usual."

"Patrolling. I took an extra lap tonight."

Daenerys didn't respond. Her fingers traced down the links of the chain, one by one.

It was as if she were examining this object seriously for the first time. She paused when she touched the hidden clasp. A line of tiny Old Valyria text was engraved on the clasp; she didn't need to look at the translation, she had already memorized it.

"You have a scent on you." Her fingers continued to stroke the chain. She didn't look up at him. Her finger pads rubbed back and forth over the inscription on the clasp.

"It is not mine. Nor is it White Mane's. It is that very cheap jasmine perfume."

Drogon froze. His tail tensed into a straight line behind him. The tip of his tail was trembling slightly.

"I passed by. There is a bathhouse over there. Perhaps it was the wind."

Daenerys slowly stood up. She turned around. Faced him.

There was no anger on her face, nor was there a smile. It was an expression Drogon had never seen before—not the cold indifference from rejecting the Great Masters' petitions in court, nor the madness from when she had rushed toward him on the city walls when he was injured.

It was something else. Flatter. Steadier. More terrifying. There were no tears in her purple eyes, no rage, only a judgment so quiet it made one's skin crawl.

She held the chain in her hand. The chain made a crisp clinking sound between her fingers—the links striking against each other, ding-ding-dang-dang, sounding exceptionally loud in the quiet bedchamber.

"Drogon. That silver mark on your chest—it suddenly burned me for three seconds tonight at 9:03. Then your heartbeat was faster for a full four minutes between 9:04 and 9:08."

"At 9:09, your heartbeat suddenly dropped. Then it took you nearly an hour to walk back to the pyramid. Normally, it only takes you thirty seconds to fly back from the plaza."

She took a step forward. Her bare feet pressed against the stone slabs, silent. She looked up into his vertical pupils. She only reached his chin, but the aura with which she looked up at him was as if she were looking down on him.

"I will not ask what you did. I only ask—did you, or did you not, harbor feelings for someone else?"

Drogon opened his mouth. He wanted to lie. The words stuck in his throat. It wasn't that he couldn't say them.

It was the connection of the blood bond. She was too close, so close that the silver mark on his chest could directly feel her heartbeat at this moment—fast, heavy, waiting for his answer.

Every beat of her heart was transmitted through the blood bond, as if knocking on his chest. He couldn't bear to lie. And lying was useless. She could feel him lying.

"...Yes."