56: Chapter 56 Chained

Daenerys was not angry.

She unfurled the ancient parchment clutched in her other hand and held it out before him.

The edges of the parchment were yellowed and brittle, letting out a faint crackle as it opened. Her fingers were steady, without the slightest tremor.

"Old Valyria Dragonkin Consort Contract. Volume Three. Chapter Four. Section Seven."

Her voice was flat, as if she were reading an administrative report or dismissing Grazdan’s land appeal at a court session. But her heartbeat betrayed her—the pulse transmitted through the blood bond was at least twenty beats faster than usual.

"The dominant party of the contract—the Dragon—if they engage in intimate contact or show clear intent of possession toward a non-contractual subject without the consent of the Core Consort, the Core Consort has the right to exercise the 'Right of Punishment'."

Punishment methods include, but are not limited to: restricting the range of activity within the territory, stripping away gifts given by the consort, or using binding implements agreed upon in the contract for physical punishment. During the period of punishment, the dominant party of the Dragonkin contract shall not resist."

Drogon's vertical pupils constricted, staring at Missandei's elegant annotations on the parchment—'Upon verification, this clause applies to the blood bond contract between Lord Drogon and the Khaleesi.'

valyrian steel chains are the standard punishment implements in the Old Valyria Dragon Lord consort system. The chains themselves possess no magical binding power, but the 'Right of Punishment' clause in the contract causes the dragonkin to psychologically resist the urge to rebel.

Note: This clause has been executed at least eleven times in the history of Old Valyria, with no recorded instances of dragonkin resistance.'

Only one thought crossed his mind: Missandei, you're finished.

Daenerys put away the parchment. It let out a soft crackle as she rolled it back up.

She shook the chains in her hand. They gleamed with a cold, dark light under the candlelight. The clinking of the links was soft, yet every sound was distinct in the quiet bedchamber.

"This chain was found by White Mane in a secret room within the Great Masters' treasury. It is said to be a token gifted by an Old Valyria Dragon Lord to his consort. Missandei translated the inscription upon it."

She turned over the hidden clasp at the end of the chain. A line of tiny Old Valyria script was engraved there—the writing was thin, but the strokes were deep. It hadn't been carved; it had been cast. The blacksmith who forged this chain had integrated the inscription with the links.

"The inscription reads—'In the name of love, I bind thy body'."

She paused. Her violet eyes looked straight into his vertical pupils. Her eyelashes cast fine shadows under the candlelight, falling beneath her eyes and overlapping with the dark circles left by her consecutive late nights.

"Drogon, do you think your actions tonight are worthy of being 'in the name of love'?"

Drogon stood where he was, his vertical pupils fixed on the chain.

valyrian steel. Black. A fine chain. The hidden clasp was polished smooth. Every link shimmered with a cold light.

There were no magical fluctuations, no system pop-up warnings. It was just a chain. Not a divine artifact, not a cursed item. Just something some Dragon Lord thousands of years ago had a blacksmith forge for his consort.

And now it was in Daenerys's hands. She held it, her fingers threaded through the links, her fingertip pressed against the clasp. Thousands of years later, it looked as good as new. It had bound more than one Dragon Lord. Now it was his turn.

Dragonkin instinct whispered in the depths of his consciousness. Not resistance, but obedience. The voice was low but clear, as if seeping from the deepest part of his bloodline.

"Accept it. She is the Core Consort. She has the right to punish. Accepting punishment is a necessary act to maintain consort hierarchy in dragonkin society. To refuse—is to declare the contract void."

"The blood bond you established on the city walls. The Blood of the Reverse Scale. Her blood. That drop of dragon blood still beats in her heart. Can you stomach turning your back on that?"

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. Another image flashed through his mind—not of his own volition, but the blood bond reminiscing for him.

The city walls. The Ice Spear. He fell. The moment she lunged forward. Her hands gripped the Ice Spear. Frost burned her skin. She didn't let go. Her fingers turned white from the cold, blood seeping from beneath her nails, yet she didn't let go. Now, those once-injured hands held the chain.

He slowly exhaled and lowered his head. The light in his vertical pupils dimmed slightly—the dark gold receding from the center to the edges until it was just a thin ring. He clenched his fists at his sides and then dropped to one knee. Not by force.

It was the only posture he could think of that maintained a minimum of dignity while accepting punishment. His knee hit the stone floor with a dull thud.

His voice was hoarse. His tail swept lightly across the floor.

"Do it."

Daenerys approached.

Her footsteps were light, each one landing in sync with his heartbeat. Barefoot on the stone floor, the sound of her steps was almost inaudible. But the rustle of her nightgown's hem brushing against the stone—a faint swish—was clearer than her footsteps.

He could hear it. Dragonkin hearing was too sharp, sharp enough to hear the slight friction of skin against stone as her toes curled.

She stood before him, looking down. From this angle, she could see the top of his head—his black hair was messy, with dust from the night market on the tips. The scales on the back of his neck were slightly flared.

He was nervous. Dragons flare their scales when tense; it's an instinctive defense. But he did not close his scales before her. He kept them flared. He was saying in the way of the dragonkin: I have lowered my defenses.

She reached out, took one end of the chain, leaned over, and fastened the clasp around his left ankle.

Click.

The crisp sound of metal snapping shut rang out exceptionally loud in the quiet bedchamber. The spring of the clasp engaged, and the latch clicked into the keyhole.

This sound was called the 'Sound of the Vow' in the era of Old Valyria—the first sound of the consort's Right of Punishment. Missandei had written it in the annotations.

Then she wrapped the chain around his waist.

She moved slowly. Every link brushed against the scales on his abdomen. The insides of the valyrian steel links were polished extremely smooth—the craftsmanship of that blacksmith from millennia ago—but the links themselves were still cold.

It was scalding beneath his scales. The temperature difference made his abdominal muscles contract. She could feel his body's reaction. The blood bond transmitted his heartbeat—it hadn't slowed down since they started.

But the element of fear in his heartbeat was being replaced by something else: he wasn't afraid. He was accepting it.

Finally, she fastened the other end of the chain to the bedpost. A heavy bedpost carved from obsidian, strong enough to withstand his struggles.

The length of the iron chain was enough for him to lie on the bed or sit on the floor. Her fingers didn't tremble as she fastened it. Her movements were steady, as if she were fastening something she used every day.

Having finished, she took a step back and looked at him.

A dragon bound by chains at her bedside. A conqueror on one knee. The hand that had crushed the hearts of Great Masters now hung at his side. The luster of the scales on the back of his hand was obscured by the shadow of the chain. The black gleam of valyrian steel and the dark gold luster of his scales intertwined under the candlelight.

She reached out and gently touched the black hair falling over his forehead. Her fingertips slid from his temple to his sideburns, her movements so tender she seemed like a different person from the cold woman just moments ago. Her fingers picked up a hint of the night market's atmosphere from his hair—the scent of grilled meat, spice dust, and that jasmine perfume. The kind that cost three copper coins a bottle.

"You are not allowed to go anywhere tonight. Stay right here. Before tomorrow—promise me, you will only have my scent on you."