57: Chapter 57 Locked to the Bed

Drogon looked down at the chain on his ankle. He moved it slightly. The links gave a crisp clinking sound. It was sturdy. The craftsmanship was excellent. With the strength of his 1,200-point bloodline, he could easily break it, or even transform into his dragon form to burst it apart. But he did not struggle.

It wasn't because he couldn't break free. It was because he didn't want to.

What he felt was not the pain of confinement. It was something else—a strange sensation of being thoroughly possessed, from law to soul.

His core spouse, the woman with whom he had signed a blood bond using the blood of his inverse scale, had for the first time actively exercised her rights as a "Dragon's Spouse."

Not on the battlefield, not in a political setting. It was by the bedside. Wearing a nightgown. Barefoot. She had personally placed the chains on him.

He suddenly laughed. It wasn't his usual roguish or pretentious laugh, but one mixed with bitterness and a sense of satisfaction he didn't even understand himself.

The corners of his mouth curled up, but there was no triumph in his eyes—only a complex expression of having been pressed against a wall, yet feeling a sense of relief.

"So you didn't give the key to the chains to Missandei—you kept it yourself. You wanted to chain me up yourself tonight."

"Missandei's notes say so. The right of punishment must be exercised by the spouse personally. Entrusting it to others is invalid."

"She even looked that up."

"She spent three afternoons translating four volumes of the Old Valyria Code. Thanks to her, I now know your contractual obligations better than you do."

Drogon sighed. He lifted his head. His slit pupils looked straight at her. He was kneeling on the floor, and she was standing before him. From this angle, he had to look up to see her eyes. But he didn't feel looked down upon. He felt looked at.

"Then you should also know—the right of punishment has another meaning besides punishment."

Daenerys paused slightly. "What?"

"In the society of the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria, the other meaning of a spouse exercising the right of punishment is—'You care about me.'

If you didn't care about me, you wouldn't have scoured the codes to punish me. If you didn't care about me, you wouldn't have gotten so angry just from smelling a few coppers' worth of cheap perfume on me.

If you didn't care about me—you wouldn't have sat here waiting for an hour and a half while I hadn't returned. Tapping your fingers on the table. With the chains lying on the table. Waiting for me to come back."

Daenerys's expression shifted slightly. She turned around, facing away from him. Her ears turned slightly red. The chains swayed gently in her hand, the links clinking with a very faint sound.

"You're overthinking it. I am merely upholding the legal validity of the contract."

Drogon looked down at the chains on his ankle. His tail flicked gently behind him. The sound of the links clinking rang out in rhythm with his tail.

"Yes, yes, yes. Legal validity. By the way—don't tear down that spice shop tomorrow.

The stall owner is just a woman trying to attract customers with free bathwater. She didn't do anything wrong. The one at fault is me."

She stood with her back to him. Silent for a moment. He took in her silhouette—the outline of her shoulder blades under her nightgown, silver hair hanging down her back, the ends sweeping across her waistline. Her shoulders were tense. But when she spoke, they relaxed just a little.

"I didn't intend to tear down the shop. I have already had White Mane send people to the square tonight to announce—all bathhouses are to be segregated by gender starting today. Dragons are not allowed to enter."

Drogon: "..."

"You even thought of that."

"Missandei's assessment report states, 'Dragon courting periods peak every seven to ten days; it is recommended to reduce the Dragon Lord's exposure to unfamiliar members of the opposite sex during this time.'

Your next peak is probably next Wednesday. I have already scheduled the government affairs for that day in advance; you will accompany me to inspect the manors around Meereen. All day. No unfamiliar members of the opposite sex."

Drogon finally broke his composure. He let out a low laugh. The laughter escaped from his throat, carrying the unique chest resonance of the dragon race.

"You've even scheduled my courting period. You're more ruthless than the laws."

Daenerys turned around. She looked down at him, bound by the chains. The corners of her mouth finally lifted in a tiny smile that only he could understand—a smile that was not that of a queen to a subject, nor a mother to a child.

It was more complex. It was the joy felt by a woman when she saw her own dragon locked by her own hands at the bedside, a joy of exclusive possession that welled up from the bottom of her heart, translated by the code as "the right of punishment." But she would not admit it.

"What did you think?"

The bedchamber was quiet for a long time.

Daenerys sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. She held a book in her hands. But her gaze was clearly not on the book—she had been staring at the same page for half an hour without turning it. The edges of the pages were creased by her fingers. Drogon sat on the floor by the bedside.

His locked left leg was stretched out, his right knee bent. His tail wrapped around to the front, the tip poking at the links of the chain. Tap, tap. Cling. Cling. Cling. It was as if he were playing with a new toy.

The inside of the links was polished extremely smooth. There was no rust. He turned the link over to look at the polishing marks on the inside. It wasn't machine-polished. It was hand-polished.

He could see the extremely fine grinding lines, each one curved, following the arc of the link. Thousands of years ago, a craftsman had spent a long time polishing the inside of these links so that they wouldn't scratch the dragon being locked.

This object was not an instrument of torture. It was a token of affection. The blacksmith who forged it knew what it was locking up.

"What are you thinking about?" Daenerys spoke suddenly. Her eyes were still fixed on the book.

"I'm thinking about the old predecessor who gave me the original version of these chains. What happened to him later."

Daenerys turned a page of the book. She wasn't actually reading it, just turning it. The sound of the page turning was very loud in the quiet bedchamber.

"According to Missandei's translation—this Dragon Lord ruled together with his spouse for forty-seven years after the punishment event.

In his later years, he made the same mistake twice more and was locked up twice.

Eventually, he died of cardiac arrest less than a day after his spouse passed away. Ancient Valyrian history books call it 'the spouse's funeral sacrifice.' Modern dragon biology speculates it was heartbreak caused by the severing of the blood bond."

Drogon fell silent. The tip of his tail rested on the link. The link swayed slightly from being poked by his tail. The amplitude of the swaying slowly diminished.

"...Missandei even translated that for you."

"She said this is an important case study for researching dragon spouse contracts. She also said—if I die before you in the future, you will likely not survive past the next day."

He lifted his locked left foot. The chains gave a crisp clink. He looked down at the links swaying on his ankle.

The valyrian steel glinted with a cold, eerie light under the candlelight.

A craftsman thousands of years ago had polished the inside of the links. A Dragon Lord thousands of years ago had worn them and spent several nights chained by his spouse's bedside. Now it was his turn.

"Then I must be more careful. I cannot let you die. Otherwise, I won't live either. Listen—doesn't this sound like the oath I swore on the city walls? Only back then it was with blood, now it's with chains. Both methods are quite fitting for a dragon."

Daenerys put down the book.

She slid off the bed. The hem of her nightgown spread across the floor, brushing against the stone tiles.

Her bare feet stepped onto the stone, only a few inches from his tail. Then she sat down beside him.

Less than a foot away from him. Her back against the edge of the bed, her legs stretched out, her toes curled slightly. Cold.

He turned his head to look at her. From this angle, he could see the silhouette of her profile. Silver hair fell over her shoulders. Her eyelashes were long. There was a faint circle of dark blue under her eyes—the traces of staying up late to handle government affairs.

She could have slept earlier tonight.

While he was outside, distracted by the scent of perfume, she was here translating the punishment clauses of the Old Valyria Code for him. Missandei translated three volumes, and she had gone through the fourth.

Her voice was very soft. The coldness from before was gone.

There was only exhaustion and an emotion she couldn't quite explain herself. Like the emptiness after anger.

Like the fatigue of "as expected" after worrying for a long time and then having the thing actually happen.

"Drogon. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I also know—you are not like me. You are not a human. You are a dragon. Your body, your instincts, your desires—are all different from mine.

I scoured the codes, Missandei checked the ancient texts of The Citadel, and they say it is a normal phenomenon for the dragon race to have secondary spouses outside of their main spouse. That mark on White Mane—I am slowly starting to accept it."

She paused. Her fingers resting on her knees tightened slightly. Her nails dug into her palms. Leaving a few crescent-shaped marks.

"But tonight was not a secondary spouse. Tonight was just a woman whose name you didn't even know. A bathhouse worker spraying three coppers' worth of perfume. You almost—"

"I didn't." Drogon's voice was deep. He turned his head, looking at her profile. "I was far from it. I ran."

"You ran. But not because she wasn't tempting. It was because—I would know. You were afraid that I would know. So you didn't run because you didn't want her, you ran because you were afraid of me. I am very clear about this distinction."

Drogon opened his mouth to argue. But he looked at her profile, at the dark circles under her eyes, at the nail marks pressed into her palms, and the words got stuck in his throat. She was right. It wasn't because he didn't want it. It was because of fear.

Fear that she would know. Fear that if she knew, she would be sad. Fear that if she were sad, he would be sad too. Fear that if he were sad, she would be sad too—this was a cycle. A cycle where the blood bond locked two people together.

"You're right. It wasn't because I didn't want it. It was because I was afraid of you. But fear—is because I care. I have never been afraid of anything else in my life. Not even when Ice Scum's spear pierced my wing, I wasn't afraid."

Daenerys did not look at him. But her shoulders relaxed just a little. The fingers resting on her knees loosened. A few faint nail marks remained in her palms.

"So, the chains are effective."

"Effective. More effective than dragon's dread."