63: Chapter 61 Dragon Escort

Dusk. The fleet sailed into the waters bordering the Narrow Sea. The sea turned from deep blue to grey-green, the waves becoming shorter and choppier.

The currents of Westeros churned beneath the ships.

The setting sun dyed the sea gold and red. The fleet's sails were also dyed gold and red.

There were no clouds in the sky. Only a massive black silhouette circled slowly above the fleet—Drogon was escorting the fleet in his dragon form. With a wingspan of nearly thirty meters, his wings cast wave-like shadows on the sea surface when he flapped them.

The sails were filled by the wind from his wings, and the fleet's speed increased by half a knot.

Rhaegal and Viserion followed behind him.

Their size was already nearly half of his, and their scale colors had differentiated—Rhaegal was bronze and green, while Viserion was cream and gold.

They maintained a fixed following distance under Drogon's dominance, like frigates following a flagship.

They dared not overtake. They dared not retreat. The hierarchy of dragons is engraved in their blood.

Drogon lowered his altitude. He swept over the Dragonstone. The massive dragon head turned to look at Daenerys standing at the bow. She had changed into sailing attire—a dark grey cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her silver hair flying backward in the wind.

"Drogon! Don't fly too far!"

She shouted. The sea breeze tore her voice into fragments. But the blood bond conveyed every word to him. He could perceive her mood through the blood bond resonance—it wasn't nervousness. It was excitement. The excitement of "finally going to that continent with more gold mines." Sometimes she was more like a dragon than he was.

"I smell the direction of Westeros! Not far! Ten more days!"

He responded in the air. His voice shook the sea surface. The fleet's flags shivered from the sound waves.

Then he flapped his wings and flew high. Passing through the clouds. Above the clouds, there was no sea mist, and visibility was extremely far. To the northwest, across the Narrow Sea, the coastline of the continent was vaguely visible—grey. Cliffs. Reefs. Black beaches. Westeros. In the waters at the southern end of the continent, a small black island surrounded by volcanoes was silently waiting for its old master to return.

Dragonstone.

"Main quest updated: Arrive at Dragonstone, establish a beachhead in Westeros. Quest reward: Bloodline +100, Title 'Lord of Dragonstone'."

Drogon circled in the clouds. His vertical pupils locked onto the direction of that small black island.

"The origin of the iron throne. A black rock. It's a bit small, but I heard the dragon glass veins on the island are the richest in Westeros. Richer than the one I have under the sea."

"Yes. The dragon glass reserves on Dragonstone are about seventeen times that of the Dragon Tooth Reef vein."

Drogon's dragon wings paused for a beat in the air.

"...Seventeen times."

He suddenly dove downward. Passing through the clouds. He drew a black arc above the fleet's sail shadows.

"Mother. Speed up."

Dragonstone. Midnight.

A volcanic island shaped by the magic of Valyria.

The castle on the island was built from obsidian and dragon glass—not stacked, but shaped. The dragon lords of Valyria used dragon fire to melt obsidian into liquid, then let it cool into the shapes they wanted.

The towers were carved into the shape of roaring dragons. The dragon mouths opened toward the sky. Vents were embedded in the throats of the stone dragons, and as the sea breeze blew in, it made a low whistling sound.

At the highest point of the castle. The Nightfire Altar. A huge bonfire was burning. The color of the flames was not orange-red, but an eerie interweaving of green and blue—the effect of adding wildfire and dragon glass powder.

Tongues of fire licked the night sky, and every time they flared up, they cast twisted shadows on the stone tower.

Beside the fire, a woman in a red robe was staring at the flames. Melisandre. The red priestess. The priestess of the Lord of Light. Religious advisor to Stannis Baratheon.

The hood half-covered her face, and the firelight danced on her fair skin. Her lips were silently chanting something. Her Adam's apple vibrated slightly. It was as if she was talking to the flames.

A blurry image appeared in the flames.

A dark ocean. Hundreds of warships. The sails were black, and a three-headed dragon was embroidered on the flags. Above the fleet, a massive black shadow circled. The black shadow spread its wings, covering the moon.

The eyes were two burning dark golden fireballs, with a faint, ghostly blue cold light visible within them. It opened its mouth. Flames rolled in its throat. It was blue. Not red.

Melisandre's hands trembled slightly. Her voice was mixed with awe and ecstasy.

"True dragon… the true dragon prophesied by the Lord of Light… not Stannis. It's another one. A dragon carrying ice and fire."

She knelt before the flames. She untied a small deerskin pouch from her waist and poured out a small amount of powder—Old Valyria dragon glass powder. Obtained from Stannis's treasury.

She threw the powder into the fire. The flames flared up violently. Green and blue tongues of fire twisted and intertwined, and the black shadow of that giant dragon became clearer in the flames. The edges of its scales were tinged with an icy blue light. Two colors coexisted on its body—black. Ice. Ice and fire.

Melisandre's eyes reflected the flames. Her lips were trembling. Not chanting. It was an inability to control her facial muscles due to excitement.

"Lord of Light above… I will see the true dragon with my own eyes. I will offer myself. Not for Stannis—but for the prophecy."

She stood up. Turned around.

Stannis Baratheon stood on the altar steps.

His face was cold and hard. His hair was sparse. His cheekbones were high. His lips were pressed into a line. He held a long sword in his hand. Intricate runes were carved on the blade, emitting a faint orange-yellow light in the reflection of the night fire.

That was "lightbringer". The legendary divine sword of Azor Ahai. It was said that the chosen one would wield this sword to defeat the darkness. The light of the blade seemed pale and weak against the backdrop of the giant dragon's shadow in the night fire. Like a candle placed beside a bonfire.

"What did you see?" His voice was like iron. Every word was hammered out hard.

Melisandre turned around. Her red eyes looked at him. The reflection of the flames in her eyes had not yet faded.

"The girl of the Targaryen house. Three dragons. The largest one among them—it is not a dragon. It is something older than dragons. It is flying across the Narrow Sea, flying toward this island."

Stannis gripped the hilt. His jaw tightened. The muscles at the angle of his jaw twitched.

"Dragonstone is my fief. I will not hand it over to any Targaryen."

Melisandre's voice was soft. But it carried a certain irresistible certainty.

"Your Grace. The lightbringer in your hand is the weapon to defeat the darkness in the prophecy. But the prophecy says—the one who defeats the darkness is not the wielder of the sword. It is the alliance between the sword wielder and the true dragon."

"Alliance? You want me to ally with a Targaryen?" His voice carried a sarcastic, rusty tone.

"Not with the Targaryen. With the true dragon. If the true dragon chooses the girl of the Targaryen house—we must ensure that the true dragon chooses us as well."

Stannis stared at her. Silence for a long time. Then he turned and walked down the steps. The sound of his footsteps faded step by step on the stone slabs.

Melisandre turned back. Staring at the flames again. The black shadow of the giant dragon in the flames had dissipated, leaving only the green and blue tongues of fire dancing. She reached out, and her long, pale fingers probed the edge of the flames. The tongues of fire licked her fingertips. No burns.

"True dragon. I am waiting for you."

Dawn. Narrow Sea. At the front of the fleet.

The horizon turned pale. Mist swirled on the sea, with visibility less than three miles. The fog was formed by the warm ocean current meeting cold air, very thick and humid. The sails were dampened by the mist, and the flags stuck to the masts.

The lead ship of the fleet slowed down slowly in the fog. The lookout on the ship lay on the mast, trying hard to identify the direction, cursing under his breath.

Drogon dove down from the clouds. Dragon form. His wingtips tore through the fog, dragging two white vortices behind him. He landed on the bow of the Dragonstone. His dragon claws were firmly locked onto the sides of the figurehead—the miniature wooden carving of the iron throne was stepped under his claws. His dragon wings folded. His dragon head turned to Daenerys on the bridge.

"There is fog ahead. There is something in the fog—not an enemy. It's reefs. The volcanic reefs around Dragonstone. Let the fleet slow down, follow me."

He flew up again. Flying forward in the fog. His dragon pupils penetrated the fog—the reefs beneath the sea were clusters of black thermal energy voids in his Dragon Perception. The surfaces of the reefs were washed smooth as mirrors by the seawater, covered with seaweed, swaying gently in the surge.

The fleet lined up in a single column behind him. The Dragonstone led the way, the Unsullied transport ships in the middle, and the Dothraki fast sailboats brought up the rear. The ship hulls were almost touching, tied together with cables, moving slowly forward in the fog.

The fog suddenly dispersed.

Not slowly. It was like being pushed away by an invisible hand. Ahead of the fleet, a pitch-black volcanic island appeared in the morning light.

The castle on the island reflected the luster of obsidian in the morning sun. The dragon-shaped towers opened their mouths toward the sky, as if greeting them silently. A thin wisp of white smoke rose from the top of the volcano, stretching into a ribbon in the morning breeze.

Daenerys stood at the bow. Her hands gripped the railing tightly. The dew on the railing soaked her cuffs. Her purple eyes reflected the island she had only seen in her dreams.

The island she had fled on the day she was born. The island she had never stepped foot on but was incredibly familiar with from countless stories.

"Dragonstone." Her voice was soft. But Drogon's blood bond could hear it. "I'm home."

He circled above her. The airflow stirred by his dragon wings made the fleet's flags flap loudly. He whispered a sentence through the blood bond resonance that only she could hear. Not the low roar of his dragon form. It was extremely faint. Like the sound when he put the necklace on her on the city wall that day.

"Welcome home. This time, no one can drive us away from here."

The fleet anchored off the black beach on the south side of Dragonstone.

Black beach. Really black. The sand was volcanic basalt weathered down, and it made a fine crunching sound when stepped on. Behind the beach were steep black cliffs, and on the cliffs was the Dragonstone castle.

The shadow of the dragon-shaped tower stretched long in the morning light, covering half the beach.

The Unsullied began to land. Small boats transported them to the shore one by one. The warhorses of the Dothraki Cavalry were hoisted off the ships, snorting as their hooves, soaked in seawater, stepped onto the black sand. White Mane stood on the beach, her silver-white braids flying in the wind.

She carried her giant blade in one hand, while her other hand pressed on the Brand on the back of her neck. The Brand was slightly warm—not danger. It was new land. A new battlefield.

Drogon stood beside Daenerys in human form. His feet were on the black sand, his tail flicking gently behind him. He looked down at the black sand under his feet, then bent down and grabbed a handful. The black sand leaked through his fingers. The sand was mixed with extremely fine black crystal shards—dragon glass fragments. Not a vein. The whole island was full of dragon glass. Even the beach was mixed with it.

"Seventeen times." He straightened his back, his vertical pupils shining with dark golden light in the sun. "...Mine. The whole island is mine. Mother, I want to dig a vault under the castle. Three times bigger than the one in Meereen."

Daenerys did not answer. Her purple eyes were fixed on the dragon-shaped castle on the cliff. The stone dragon's open mouth was facing her. The sea breeze poured into the stone dragon's throat, making a low whistling sound. Like a dragon roar that had waited seventeen years.

"Let's go." She said. "Home."

She stepped forward, walking toward the black stone steps leading to the castle. Drogon followed half a step behind her. White Mane gathered the cavalry and lined up on the beach. The spears of the Unsullied flashed with cold light in the morning sun.

In the distance. At the highest point of the castle. The bonfire of the Nightfire Altar was still burning. The green and blue flames were so faint in the morning light that they were almost invisible. But Melisandre stood by the altar, her red robe flapping in the sea breeze. She looked at the black figure stepping onto the stone steps on the beach below—not in dragon form. It was human form. But she recognized him. The eyes she had seen in the flames.

Dark golden vertical pupils. A flash of ghostly blue cold light flickered in the morning sun.

"True dragon." Her lips moved silently. "Welcome home."