64: Chapter 62 Black Sand is Not Sand

The beach at Dragonstone is black. Not gray. Not brown. It is pure black.

Volcanic basalt has been eroded by the sea for tens of thousands of years, ground into fine powder. When you step on it, it crunches. It is not the sand that is making the sound—it is the shards of dragon glass mixed into the sand shattering underfoot.

The entire island is dragon glass; even the beach is mixed with it. Every grain of sand is embedded with black crystal shards the size of a needle tip, which do not glint at all in the sunlight. They absorb light.

Daenerys stood at the prow. The gangplank had not yet been lowered. She looked at the black sand, her fingers gripping the ship's railing. The dew on the railing soaked her cuffs, the fabric clinging to her wrist beside that black silk scarf. A new loose thread had appeared on the edge of the scarf.

"This is Dragonstone. The place where I was born. That day in the storm, my mother was carried onto a ship on this very beach. She did not leave alive. But I have returned."

Her voice was very soft. She was not speaking to anyone in particular.

She was speaking to this island.

To the woman who had taken her last breath on this beach seventeen years ago.

Drogon stood half a step behind her.

Human form. Short trench coat. His tail kept a guarded, low position behind him, the tip resting lightly on the ship's railing.

His vertical pupils swept over the castle towers at the end of the beach. The dragon-shaped towers had their maws open to the sky, with vents embedded in the throats of the stone dragons.

The sea breeze blew into them, emitting a low whistle. The sound rebounded off the castle's outer walls and dissipated beneath the cliffs.

His Dragon Perception expanded within his consciousness. There was the heat of living people in the towers. Not many. No more than eight hundred. Their heartbeats were steady. There was no metallic scent of siege engines. No energy fluctuations from dragon glass ballistae.

"There are about eight hundred people in the towers. No metallic scent of siege engines. They are either waiting for us or waiting to negotiate."

Daenerys let go of the railing and turned around. The sea breeze blew her silver-gold hair back, the tips brushing against Drogon's cheek, carrying the scent of sea salt and dragon fire.

"Then we shall negotiate first."

The gangplank was lowered. She was the first to walk off the ship.

When her foot touched the black sand, she paused for a moment. It was not hesitation.

It was an emotion Drogon had never seen before flashing in her eyes—as if she had stepped onto a dream she hadn't returned to for seventeen years. Then she continued walking forward. Her pace was faster than usual.

Drogon followed behind her. His tail dragged a winding trail through the sand. The black sand was plowed open by the tip of his tail, and the tiny shards of dragon glass emitted a faint, deep blue glow in the trench.

His Ice Element reacted automatically the moment it touched the dragon glass. The entire beach responded to his footsteps. Each grain of dragon glass shard was like an awakened firefly, lighting up in the trail he left behind, then extinguishing.

White Mane paused for a step on the gangplank. Her amber eyes watched those blue lights on the beach that lit up and extinguished in succession, and the corners of her mouth twitched.

"You even bring lights when you walk."

"The island is greeting me."

A long corridor. Obsidian walls. The torches were added later—pine resin torches, their flames casting flickering shadows on the obsidian walls. The smoke from the torches had blackened the edges of the reliefs.

The walls were covered with reliefs of dragons from Old Valyria. The dragons were slender, with wings folded and long necks curved. The scales were carved into flowing arcs.

It was somewhat similar to the outline of Drogon in his dragon form, but not exactly the same. These relief dragons had no bone spurs on their spines, no ice spikes on their tail tips, and no dark gold patterns on the edges of their scales.

Daenerys walked in the lead. Drogon was on her left. White Mane was to her right rear. Jorah and Barristan brought up the rear.

The Unsullied lined up outside the castle and did not enter.

This was a gesture of sincerity for the negotiation. It was also a display of confidence—outside the castle were eight thousand spears, two thousand scimitars, and three dragons. Inside the castle, there were only the footsteps of four people.

White Mane's peripheral vision swept over the reliefs on the walls. Her amber eyes narrowed slightly in the firelight.

These dragons of Old Valyria were carved too elegantly. Every muscle line was as smooth as water. When the wings were folded, the wingtips touched the tail tip, and the long necks were curved into perfect arcs.

Drogon was not like that. His dragon form was wilder. Bone spurs burst through the scales on his spine. Jagged ice spikes on his tail tip.

His dragon horns were branched. The edges of his scales were inlaid with dark gold patterns. It looked as if these reliefs had been shattered and pieced back together with molten gold—larger, rougher, and fiercer than the original version.

Drogon did not look back. But the tip of his tail lightly touched White Mane's boot. Through the leather boot, she could barely feel the touch. But she knew it was him. The Brand was slightly warm.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Thinking that you and these dragons on the wall don't seem to be the same species."

"We aren't. I am an upgraded version."

White Mane's mouth twitched. She said nothing. She continued walking forward. Her boot heels struck a steady rhythm on the obsidian floor.

The black iron doors opened. The door hinges emitted a low roar. A heatwave devoid of temperature rushed toward them.

A huge stone hall. The dome was high enough to fit Drogon's dragon form—his thirty-two-meter wingspan, fully extended, would not touch the ceiling. The walls were obsidian.

The floor was obsidian. In the center, a huge bonfire was burning. The color of the flames was not orange-red, but an interweaving of green and blue. It had been infused with wildfire and dragon glass powder.

The tongues of fire licked the air, and every time they flared high, they cast twisted shadows on the stone walls. There was no warmth in the air. Only a strange, temperatureless light. The more fiercely the fire burned, the colder the hall became.

Behind the bonfire. A simple black stone throne. No golden armrests. No gemstone inlays. It was just a block of obsidian that had been shaved flat.

Stannis Baratheon sat on it. His face was gaunt. His cheekbones were high. The hair on his head was sparse, but his back was straight as a sharpened iron rod.

His shoulder armor was engraved with the stag emblem, the edges polished bright. His hand rested on the hilt of a longsword at his waist. The blade was covered in runes, glowing with a faint orange-yellow light in the reflection of the night fire.

lightbringer. The legendary sword of Azor Ahai. Legend says it must be quenched in the blood of a spouse. Legend says the wielder of the sword will defeat the darkness.

Drogon's vertical pupils stared at that sword. The runes on the blade were glowing faintly.

It was not reflecting the light of the night fire—the sword itself was glowing. Orange-yellow, tepid, like a piece of charcoal kept warm under a blanket. What his Dragon Perception captured was some kind of ancient energy fluctuation.

This energy was not infused into it. It was the sword itself breathing. Whatever blood it had absorbed, it would surge again with every breath.

"That sword. There is dragon blood on the blade. Not fresh blood. It is from a long time ago. It has been dried for hundreds of years. It might be a relic of Old Valyria."