70: Chapter 68 Reverse Judgment

Drogon opened his eyes. Dark gold and ghostly blue were intertwined within his vertical pupils. The two colors each occupied half of the pupil, neither blending nor clashing. They were like two stars pressed against each other.

"There are two in King's Landing. The iron throne is there. There is one at Storms End. Stannis is currently retreating to Storms End. There is one in Casterly Rock. That is Tywin Lannister's lair. There is one at The Citadel. There is one in the open sea. No matter where I go, the relics are waiting for me to claim them.

This is not a coincidence. This was calculated by them hundreds of years ago. They knew when I would be born, when I would break the seal of the ore vein, and when I would need their dragon bones and testaments. They calculated everything—except for one thing."

He folded his wings and squeezed out of the mine. The sunset over the volcanic crater had already dipped below the horizon. Only a streak of blood-red remained at the edge of the sky. Sulfur steam was dispersed by the night wind, condensing into a thin layer of white mist overhead.

"They didn't calculate—that I would judge the things that came to judge me in return."

Late at night. Dragonstone castle. Daenerys's bedchamber.

This room originally belonged to her mother, Queen Rhaella. It had been abandoned for seventeen years. The furniture had long been removed, leaving only a stone bed and a stone vanity. There were several deep scratch marks on the corner of the stone bed—not from dragon claws, but from human fingernails. Queen Rhaella had clawed them during labor. The marks were still there.

The stone bed was covered with bedding brought down from the ships, the corners tucked in neatly. On the vanity sat the emerald necklace, the valyrian steel chain, and the square sapphire ring.

The three items were arranged side by side on the corner of the table, each glowing in the candlelight. The light of the emerald was warm, the light of the chain was cold, and the light of the sapphire was hard.

Daenerys sat before the vanity. She opened Missandei's notebook, flipping to a page in the "Index of Dragonkin Spouse Contract Clauses." It was marked: "Volume 5, Chapter 12, Section 3: Regarding the Handling of Prophesied Bloodline Covenants."

Missandei had added a note in the footer— "Requires written consent from the core spouse. Note: This clause has only been triggered three times in the history of Old Valyria. Twice approved, once rejected. The Dragonlord in the rejected case was ultimately bound by punishment chains for one year and three days for violating the ban and fulfilling the contract privately. The chain records are in Appendix 11. The court meeting records during the punishment period are in Appendix 12. The Dragonlord's letter of repentance is in Appendix 13." She had also drawn a small chain icon in the blank space.

"Missandei even found the letter of repentance."

She closed the notebook. She tapped her fingers on the cover twice. Then she heard the sound of the door being pushed open, along with the rustling sound of a tail dragging on the floor.

Drogon walked in, in his human form. A faint dark golden glimmer from absorbing the dragon bones still lingered on him. The edges of his scales shimmered with a brighter luster than usual.

The dark gold in his pupils had not yet fully subsided—the wisp of ghostly blue in the center was pressed by the dark gold until only a thin edge remained. He held the scroll of Orys Targaryen's parchment in his hand and placed it on her vanity.

The parchment glowed with an antique color in the candlelight, its edges slightly charred—singed by the last dragonfire four hundred years ago.

"Found in the ore vein. Orys Targaryen's relic. The scroll says—he divined my existence hundreds of years ago. He wasn't waiting for me. He was waiting for you.

He saw me in his divination, and he saw you too. He wrote—'May the light of the Ancestral Dragon protect you.' That 'you' is the descendant of Targaryen. Not me—it is you."

Daenerys unfolded the scroll. She struggled to read the Old Valyrian text in the candlelight. She read very slowly, her lips moving silently along with the glyphs.

Her Old Valyrian was not as fluent as Missandei's, but she could understand it. When she read the final sentence, "May the light of the Ancestral Dragon protect you," her finger paused on the parchment for several seconds. Her fingertip pressed onto that word "you." She stopped speaking. The parchment trembled slightly beneath her fingertips—it was her fingers trembling, not the paper.

"He was waiting for... a Targaryen to return and inherit Dragonstone."

"Yes. He sealed the dragon bones and the testament in the ore vein before the Doom, because he knew—one day, one of his descendants would bring a special dragon back to this island. It's not that I am special—it is you who are special."

Daenerys turned her head and looked up at him. His vertical pupils gleamed in the candlelight with light intertwined with ghostly blue and gold. The two colors slowly swirled within his pupils.

She could perceive his mood at this moment through the resonance of their blood bond.

It wasn't the usual excitement of finding gold coins. It was a quieter stability, as if some sense of mission had been confirmed.

It wasn't about finding more treasure. It was about finding the meaning of his own existence—he was not just a transmigrator wandering around in another world. He was a dragon who had been prophesied by an old Dragonlord four hundred years ago, destined to appear in this castle at this point in time to accompany this woman.

"You absorbed Orys's remains. How do you feel?"

Drogon's tail flicked gently behind him. The tip of his tail traced an arc in the candlelight.

"It feels... as if Westeros has suddenly shrunk. It's as if I could see Casterly Rock from Dragonstone at a glance. It's not that my eyesight has improved—it's that my range of perception has grown.

I can feel scattered dragon relics glowing across the continent. Some are in the mountains, some are on the seabed, and there are two in King's Landing. They are all waiting. Waiting for me to claim them.

Behind every point of light is a testament and a set of dragon bones. Those old Dragonlords—they all divined the same scene before the Doom. They were all waiting for the same point in time. Waiting for us."

Daenerys carefully rolled up the scroll and placed it into a dragonglass cylinder. She closed the lid. It made a soft click when it snapped shut.

"When we arrive in King's Landing, you will retrieve them one by one."

Drogon's tail flicked. The corners of his mouth curled up.

"Of course. I want the King's Landing vault, too. The iron throne belongs to you, and the gold coins beneath the iron throne belong to me."

Late at night. White Mane's room.

It was even more spartan than Daenerys's bedchamber. A cot, a chair. Her arakh stood against the wall. The blade reflected the faint moonlight from outside the window—the moonlight shone through the gaps in the obsidian window lattice, cutting thin, long silver lines onto the blade.

She sat on the cot, slowly sharpening the great blade, which was already sharp enough to shave with, using a whetstone. The sharpening motion was slow. Steady. Her wrist moved the whetstone back and forth across the blade.

*Sshh. Sshh. Sshh.* The sound was extremely faint and uniform. The angle of every stroke was identical. This was her nightly habit—even if it didn't need sharpening, the act of sharpening allowed her to relax. It ground everything in her mind into a blank slate.

Someone knocked on the door. It wasn't Drogon. Drogon's knocking was always accompanied by the sound of his tail.

This knock was very light. Knuckles tapped gently on the wood three times. The interval between each tap was identical—one second.

"Commander White Mane. I've come to deliver lamp oil. The castle is running out of pine resin, and this dragonglass lamp oil burns longer. If you don't mind, may I come in?"

It was Melisandre's voice. Through the door panel, it sounded deeper than during the day. The lingering warmth of the night fire gave her voice a sandpaper-like texture.

White Mane set down the whetstone. Her amber eyes narrowed slightly. Her hand did not leave the hilt of her blade.

"Come in. But if you are going to talk about shadows in the flames again—I don't want to hear it tonight."

Melisandre pushed the door open and entered. In her hands, she held a small jar of glowing liquid—lamp oil infused with dragonglass powder. In the dark room, the jar emitted a soft blue-green light that reflected onto her pale face, dyeing her red robes a strange shade of purple.

She placed the lamp oil in the corner, then sat on the chair. Her movements were light, her red robes spread flat across the chair seat. Her red eyes looked calmly at White Mane. She watched for three seconds before speaking.

"I won't talk about shadows. I'll talk about you."

White Mane's whetstone stopped.

"The Brand on the back of your neck—I can feel it heating up. Ever since you got close to Lord Drogon, it has been heating up. This is the standard reaction of a draconic dominion mark.

But your Brand is not quite the same as the ordinary dominion marks I've read about in Old Valyrian texts. An ordinary dominion mark does not allow the emotions of the dominated to affect the dominator.

An ordinary mark is one-way: the dragon senses you, but you cannot sense the dragon. But your mark is two-way. You could feel him absorbing the dragon bones in the mine just now, couldn't you?"

White Mane didn't speak. Her right hand subconsciously reached up to touch the Brand on the back of her neck. Her fingertip pressed against the dark golden dragon claw print. The edges of the claw print were slightly raised and a bit warmer than the surrounding skin.

"How did you know?"

"Because just now, when he was absorbing the dragon bones in the mine, your Brand suddenly became hot—you were in the hall at the time, and your hand was pressed against your neck.

I saw it. I was standing next to the night fire and saw it very clearly. That moment in time perfectly coincided with when he was absorbing the energy. When your hand pressed against it, the corners of your mouth twitched. It wasn't pain. It was something more complex than pain."

White Mane was silent. She remembered that moment. When Drogon was absorbing the dragon bones deep in the mine, she was standing in the hall arranging the camp for the Dothraki Cavalry. Suddenly, there was a scorching heat at the back of her neck. It wasn't a warning of danger. A warning of danger was a stinging pain.

This time it was a different kind of scalding heat. It was as if that dragon had clenched his fist hard from far away, and the Brand on the back of her neck had clenched along with it.

The heat spread from a tiny point, crawling along her blood vessels toward the back of her head. It stopped halfway, hanging there, refusing to leave. When she pressed her hand against it, that heat jumped beneath her palm.

"Commander White Mane. I will not peer into your relationship with him in the flames.

But I must tell you—a two-way Brand has only one name in Old Valyrian texts: the Blood-Fire Affinity Brand. It is a level higher than an ordinary dominion mark and usually only appears between a Dragonlord and a 'secondary spouse who has the potential to become a core spouse.'

To him, you are—more than just a mercenary. Not a partner sharing spoils. Not a combat companion. It is something deeper. You may not have decided how to define it yourself, but his instinct has already defined it for you."

White Mane put the whetstone back under the bed. She lay down on the cot and placed the great blade horizontally by her side. The blade pressed against her arm. She closed her eyes. Her voice was flat.

"Understood. Good night. Leave the lamp oil, and close the door on your way out."

Melisandre stood up. She walked to the door and paused for a step. She didn't look back. Her red robe stopped at the doorframe for a moment.

"There have only been three holders of the Blood-Fire Affinity Brand in the history of Old Valyria. All three eventually became core spouses. Not replacements—but equals. They shared the same Dragonlord. It wasn't about who was first or last. It was equality."

She pulled the door shut. The door hinge didn't creak. There was only the very faint sound of friction as the door closed.

White Mane lay in the darkness. The Brand on the back of her neck was warm. Not scalding. Just warm. It was like a finger gently pressing there. Not his finger. It was the temperature of the Brand itself.

She opened her eyes, looking at the obsidian texture on the ceiling. The texture was illuminated by the moonlight into varying shades of gray. She was silent for a long time.

"... Equals."

She pulled the quilt up to her shoulders, turned over, and closed her eyes. The blade was still resting horizontally by her side.