65: Chapter 63 The Woman in the Red Robe

To the right of the throne stood a woman in a dark red robe. Her hood was half-drawn, revealing a pair of pale red eyes.

The firelight danced across her face, making her skin appear paler than a normal person's—almost translucent.

When her gaze fell upon Drogon, those red eyes widened abruptly.

The firelight in the center of her pupils trembled. Her fingertips quivered slightly. Her lips moved silently, as if speaking a name she had waited many years for. But it wasn't a name.

It was the description from the prophecy. The true dragon. Black scales. Golden eyes. Reborn in the inferno after its left wing was pierced by an ice spear. It matched the prophecy word for word.

Drogon also felt her gaze. His slit pupils met her red eyes for an instant. Something inside him was touched lightly. It was not the clear signal of a blood bond resonance. It was weaker, more distant.

It was like a faint, almost imperceptible scent of bloodline transmitted across dozens of generations. Like two threads worn down to their last strand, brushing against each other in the air.

"This red woman. She has the scent of dragon blood on her. It's extremely faint. Diluted by human bloodlines for dozens of generations. But it is definitely there. System, scan."

The system popped up a window.

"Target: Melisandre. Identity: Priestess of the Lord of Light. Bloodline analysis: Human base, contains trace amounts of dragon blood, approximately 0.3%. Speculated to be a distant descendant of a dragonlord from Old Valyria and a human spouse."

"The dragon blood concentration is insufficient to trigger the host's dragon pressure 'kin recognition,' but it is sufficient for the host's draconic instincts to generate a natural interest in her as a 'potential genetic carrier.'"

"A potential genetic carrier. In other words, my draconic instincts are telling me—this woman, theoretically, could bear stronger offspring with me. Even if it's only 0.3% blood."

"The host's statement is biologically valid. Please do not mention this in diplomatic settings."

"I'm not stupid."

Drogon flicked his tail behind him. The tip of his tail tapped lightly on the obsidian floor. He was already calculating in his mind—if 0.3% dragon blood was enough for his draconic instincts to label her a "potential genetic carrier," then if enhanced through a blood bond, how much would the next generation's bloodline concentration jump to? But he didn't say this out loud. Daenerys was right beside him. Her right index finger was already tapping against her left wrist.

Stannis rose to his feet.

No salute. No welcome. He simply stared at Daenerys with those deep-set eyes.

His eye sockets were deep enough to hold water, and the shadows beneath his cheekbones made him appear even more gaunt in the flickering firelight. His voice was like iron. Every word was hammered out hard, without any emotional fluctuation.

"Girl of House Targaryen. Dragonstone is my fief. You have landed on my territory without permission. But you brought dragons—so I will give you a chance to explain."

Daenerys stepped forward. She was nearly a head shorter than Stannis. But she did not retreat in the slightest in terms of presence.

Her shoulders were not tense, her breathing did not quicken. Her violet eyes met those deep-set gray eyes levelly.

"Stannis Baratheon. You are Robert's brother. Robert Baratheon usurped my father's throne and killed my brother Rhaegar. The fief you speak of—Dragonstone—is the ancestral home of my House Targaryen when we ruled Westeros. I was born on this island. You live in my house, yet you tell me to explain."

Stannis's jaw tightened. The muscles at the angle of his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

"The iron throne belongs to me by right of succession. I am Robert's only legitimate heir."

"Robert's throne was never legitimate to begin with. He was a rebel leader. You are not an heir. You are the brother of a rebel."

A flash of irritation crossed Stannis's eyes. But it was quickly suppressed. He took two breaths, his chest rising and falling visibly. His voice grew colder.

"We have nothing more to say. Melisandre—is this what you called the true dragon? Two hatchlings that haven't grown up yet, one large lizard that claims to speak human language, and a little girl obsessed with family revenge."

Drogon's tail flicked lightly against the floor. A thin crack appeared on the obsidian floor.

He did not speak. But his slit pupils stared at the lightbringer at Stannis's waist. The runes on the blade were glowing faintly.

Melisandre stepped forward.

Her footsteps made no sound. The hem of her red robe brushed across the obsidian floor like a silent, moving flame.

She walked between Stannis and Daenerys. She did not bow to either side. She extended a slender, pale hand and swept it through the night fire. The flames coiled around her fingertips like a tamed snake.

When she extended her fingers again, a wisp of blue-green flame was coiled around them. The flame danced tamely at her fingertips, not burning her skin, not scorching her nails.

She held the flame before her, the light illuminating half of her face beneath her hood—smooth cheekbones, thin lips, and those pale red eyes.

"Your Majesty Stannis. Your Majesty Daenerys. The Lord of Light has shown me a prophecy in the flames."

"The true dragon—not one, but three. The mate of the true dragon—not a human queen, but the dragon itself."

"The war for the throne between you is meaningless in the face of the coming darkness."

"The Night King is gathering wights in the North, and The Wall cannot hold for many more years. The person on the iron throne, whoever it may be, must face not the grievances between the Seven Kingdoms, but the first true Long Night in eight thousand years."

She turned to Daenerys. Then—unexpectedly—she turned to Drogon.

She knelt.

Her red robe fell to the ground, spreading out on the obsidian floor like a deep red petal suddenly blooming.

Her red eyes looked up at his dark golden slit pupils. The reflection of flames danced in her eye sockets, but there were no tears. It was something hotter.

"The true dragon in the prophecy of the Lord of Light is the dragon that carries ice and fire."

"I have seen it in the flames—black scales. Golden eyes. Reborn in the inferno after its left wing was pierced by an ice spear."

"I saw him establish a blood bond with his mate atop The Walls of Meereen."

"I saw him swallow the ice crystal of the Night King and transform into an ice dragon. You—are not the mount of the Mother of Dragons."

"You are the subject of the prophecy. The Mother of Dragons is your mate, not your master. You are not her accessory. You are the one chosen by prophecy."

The entire room was silent.

Jorah's jaw dropped to the floor again. This time, he forgot to even catch it with his hand. Barristan's hand, which had been tracing the Seven-Pointed Star, turned into drawing a dragon claw mark; his fingers scratched back and forth on his chest, realized it was wrong, changed it back to the Seven-Pointed Star, then back to the dragon claw mark, and finally gave up, letting both hands hang at his sides.

White Mane's amber eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned against The Wall, arms crossed, her great blade standing at her side. Stannis's face was ashen, his fingers tightening on the hilt of lightbringer—the blade let out an extremely faint hum within its scabbard.