68: Chapter 66 Mutual Non-Aggression

After listening to the entire conversation, Stannis's face became even colder and harder.

He did not understand Ancestral Lands. He did not understand The Senate. He did not understand "Star Dragon." But he understood one thing—the Night King was in the North. The White Walkers were in the North. Those legendary things were moving south. They were not stories. They were not an old nurse's nursery tales.

It was what that red-robed woman had seen with her own eyes in the flames. It was the source of the ice crystal swallowed by that black-scaled, golden-eyed dragon. And before these things, his laws of royal succession were as light as a piece of parchment.

He stood up. He unbuckled lightbringer from his waist and placed it on the throne. The scabbard clattered against the obsidian, emitting a crisp sound. This action meant temporarily setting aside force. The orange-yellow light of the blade flickered in the night fire, then stabilized like a pulsating heart.

"Girl of House Targaryen. Dragonstone currently has about eight hundred defenders. I cannot hold this island with eight hundred men—especially with you bringing an army of ten thousand and three dragons. But I will not submit to you. I propose—"

"Speak."

"You occupy Dragonstone, and I will not resist. I will retain my army and retreat to The Stormlands. Before the White Walkers are defeated, I will not attack your army. But after the White Walkers are defeated—the issue of the iron throne's succession, we shall resolve on the battlefield."

Daenerys was silent. She looked at Jorah. Jorah nodded slightly. There was no hesitation in his gray eyes. She looked at Barristan. Barristan nodded as well, the old knight's white beard moving slightly, as if saying "it is worth it." Finally, she looked at Drogon.

Drogon's tail flicked gently. He leaned close to her ear. He lowered his voice. His lips were almost pressed against her earlobe, the hot breath blocked by her silver hair.

"Agree to him. He doesn't have enough men to beat us. After retreating to The Stormlands—he and House Lannister might fight first, helping us consume Cersei's forces.

The Stormlands is the rear of King's Landing; once he retreats there, Tywin will have to divide his troops to guard against him. We will have one less wall to face when we lay siege."

Daenerys turned to Stannis. She extended her hand. Her hand glowed with a warm light under the night fire, the edge of the black silk scarf on her wrist fluttering slightly in the flames.

"The agreement stands. Dragonstone belongs to Targaryen. Your army will safely retreat to The Stormlands. Non-aggression before the war against the White Walkers. After the war—we shall discuss what comes after."

Stannis looked at her hand. He was silent for a long time.

His fingers loosened and tightened, then tightened and loosened on the hilt of his sword. Then he reached out and grasped it. His palms were covered in calluses. The calluses from gripping a sword were on the base of his palms, and the calluses from drawing a bow were on his fingertips. These calluses were now pressed against her fingers, rough as sandpaper.

"The agreement stands."

Daenerys did not pull her hand away. She just looked into his eyes. There was no warmth, no hypocritical smile in those gray eyes, only a cold, hard, gritted-teeth pragmatism.

He did not want to sign. But he did. Because he had done the math—eight hundred defenders against eight thousand Unsullied, there was no chance of winning on paper. He had not lost to her bloodline. He had lost to her military strength and three dragons.

She let go of his hand. She turned around. Her back was straight. She walked three steps before speaking to Jorah in a low voice.

"Send a raven to The Stormlands. Tell the lords there—Stannis has returned. It is not a warning. It is a notification. Let them know what we already know."

Jorah nodded. A hint of a smile flashed in his gray eyes. It was not humor. It was a veteran's appreciation for tactical deception.

Stannis began ordering the defenders to assemble and evacuate. Eight hundred defenders were summoned from all parts of the castle to the Black Iron Gate, where they began packing weapons, provisions, and horse tack. Some were dismantling tents, some were saddling horses, and some were loading arrows onto carts.

They moved quickly—they had long wanted to leave this island.

Melisandre did not leave with him. She walked to a position behind and to the side of Drogon, keeping a distance of about three steps. Her red eyes carefully observed his human form—from the dark golden slit pupils, to the forearms covered in fine scales, to that slowly swaying tail.

"His tail movements in human form are more frequent than in dragon form. It may be that the human brain's control over the tail is not as precise as the dragon brain's. Or it may be that he unconsciously flicks his tail when he is nervous or excited.

Just now, when Daenerys tapped her fingers, his tail went rigid. He fears her. Not fearing her force—but fearing her anger. This aligns with the records in the Old Valyria spousal system where the core spouse has the Right of Punishment over the dragon lord. The classics state, 'The dragon lord fears the spouse, not out of fear of death, but out of fear of their displeasure'—this is it."

White Mane appeared silently beside Melisandre. Her great blade was carried on her shoulder, and the crossguard, modified from two valyrian steel daggers on the hilt, glinted coldly under the night fire. Her amber eyes glanced at her askance.

White Mane's footsteps were naturally light, honed on the Dothraki sea, and there was almost no sound as she stepped on the obsidian.

"You are observing him."

Melisandre did not deny it. Her gaze remained on Drogon. He was using his tail to pick up a piece of flint that had fallen on the ground, moving slowly, as if passing the time.

"I am confirming the specific details of the prophecy. At the root of his left wing—under the sunlight, one can see a scale that is slightly thinner than the surrounding ones. That is the new scale that grew after being pierced by an ice spear. It is exactly the same as the image in the flames. The texture of that scale is younger and lighter than the surrounding ones, and the edges still have an ice-blue luster that has not completely faded."

"I saw that scene with my own eyes. I was under the city walls at the time."

Melisandre finally turned her head. Her red eyes met the amber eyes. Red pupils against amber pupils. One looking at the future in the flames, one watching life and death under the city walls.

"You are White Mane, the commander. I have seen you in the flames—but not as a protagonist. You stand in his shadow. He is biting the back of your neck. That image in the flames was very short, only for an instant.

But your shadow is the most special—it is the only one with light behind its neck. The light is not given by fire. It shines from within your body. From the spot where he bit you."

There was no change in the expression on White Mane's face. But the Brand on the back of her neck was slightly hot. She did not raise her hand to touch it. She was not in the habit of letting this woman see.

"The flames tell you quite a lot."

"The Lord of Light lets me see the true dragon. Everyone around the true dragon will leave a shadow in the flames. Your shadow is the most special—the only one with light behind its neck."

White Mane was silent. Then she turned around. She walked toward the outside of the castle. She shifted the angle of the great blade on her shoulder. Her footsteps were as steady as when she arrived. Only she knew that the Brand on the back of her neck was burning hot. The way that woman spoke made people uncomfortable. But she knew about the Brand. She hadn't guessed it. She had seen it with her own eyes. In the fire.

Dusk. Dragonstone crater.

The volcano was alive. Not alive in the way of a violent eruption. It was slowly, lazily exhaling sulfur steam.

The rocks around the crater were smoked a scorched yellow—not dyed, but baked. A color baked by hundreds of years of slow fire. The air was filled with the smell of sulfur; taking a breath was like licking red-hot iron. Both taste and smell were stung.

Inside the crater, there was a naturally formed obsidian platform.

The edge of the platform had been polished by the people of Old Valyria, and a circle of fire-venting runes was carved into it. It had not been maintained for hundreds of years, and the grooves of the runes were filled with volcanic ash. At the end of the platform was a mine entrance excavated by the people of Old Valyria.

The entrance was carved with reliefs of two intertwining dragons. Dragon glass was embedded in the dragon eyes, already dimmed—they must have glowed with dark gold hundreds of years ago, but now only a gray, hazy shell remained.

Drogon landed on the platform in his dragon form. His thirty-two-meter wingspan, black dragon body cast a huge shadow under the setting sun, covering the entire inside of the crater. His slit pupils stared at the mine entrance.

Dragon Perception was reporting frantically—deep inside the mine, the reserves of dragon glass were so large that his scales stood up slightly. It was not excitement. It was resonance. It was a physiological response of his bloodline to a homologous energy source. Like two magnets vibrating slightly in each other's magnetic fields.

System pop-up.

"Dragon glass main vein detected. Estimated reserves: 17.3 times that of Dragon Tooth Reef. Purity: medium-high. Deep in the vein may contain relics of Old Valyria dragon lords, probability medium.

Recommended mining plan: Prioritize absorbing the 'active dragon glass' on the surface of the vein; deep mining to be completed by Unsullied manpower. It is estimated that the host's bloodline can be increased from 1600 to 1800 to 2000. Requires continuous absorption for about one month."

"Increase 600 points of bloodline in one month? This is faster than fighting monsters."

"Yes. Dragon glass veins are the best resource for dragon cultivation. This is also the reason why the dragon lords of Old Valyria chose Dragonstone as their outpost in Westeros. As the Ancestor of All Dragons (Inheritance), the host's absorption efficiency of the vein's energy is three times that of an ordinary Valyrian dragon.

Therefore, the speed of improvement is far beyond expectations. In addition, the vein itself is a natural cultivation ground for dragons—Old Valyria dragon lords usually went into seclusion in the veins for decades. The host does not need to go into seclusion for decades. The host only needs to absorb."

Drogon's tail flicked excitedly behind him. It slammed into the volcanic rock. A muffled sound. Gravel rolled into the crater, tumbled a few times in the sulfur steam, and disappeared into the depths.

"Start working."

He folded his wings and squeezed into the mine entrance. The entrance was just wide enough for his wingspan to pass through, the wingtips brushing against the cave walls, scraping off a layer of volcanic ash.