72: Chapter 70 Map of the King's Landing

An obsidian long table. The map of King's Landing was spread out. The four corners were held down by daggers and teacups.

The Red Keep was marked with a blood-red circle. Seven city gates. Flea Bottom. The ruins of the Dragonpit. The edges of the map curled up from the sea breeze, and Barristan held them down with his scabbard.

The tip of Jorah's dagger pointed to the mark for the underground passages beneath the Red Keep. The tip poked a small indentation into the parchment.

"We only have three informants left in King's Landing. And none of them dare to approach the Red Keep.

After the incident at the Great Sept of Baelor, Cersei increased the patrols of the Gold Cloaks; any unfamiliar face is questioned. Trying to figure out her defensive deployment and reserves of wildfire—it's impossible through conventional reconnaissance."

Daenerys tapped her fingertips on the table. The rhythm matched her heartbeat. She was wearing black scale armor today, and the black silk scarf on her wrist was still there.

"What if we send Grey Worm's Unsullied to infiltrate?"

Barristan shook his head. The old knight's white hair swayed under the torchlight.

"The facial features, skin tone, and gait of the Unsullied are too conspicuous in King's Landing. As soon as they open their mouths, they would be recognized as people from Slavers Bay. Cersei may be mad, but her Master of Whisperers, Qyburn, is no fool."

Jorah interjected.

"That old bastard Qyburn has turned the area beneath the Red Keep upside down.

The last message sent back by our final informant before being captured in Flea Bottom was this—there is wildfire beneath the Red Keep.

Not just a few barrels. An entire cellar. Sealed by the Alchemists' Guild. Cersei has obtained the key."

Silence. The sea breeze poured into the council chamber, and the edges of the map curled up again. This time, no one held them down.

Drogon leaned against the corner of the wall. He crossed his arms. His tail swayed slowly behind him. His slit pupils were half-open and half-closed, making him look like he was dozing off. But he had been listening the whole time.

wildfire. Beneath the Red Keep. The relic signal was in that direction.

His Dragon Heritage Perception flickered in his consciousness space—two points of light, overlapping directly beneath the Red Keep.

One was dark gold, the other even more ancient. They were shrouded in a thin layer of green mist. That was the energy residue of the wildfire.

"I'll go."

Jorah frowned. Barristan's hand, which had been stroking his beard, stopped. White Mane's amber eyes turned toward him, expressionless, but the Brand on the back of her neck grew slightly warm—she was using the Brand to sense his emotions. A thoughtful glint flashed in Melisandre's red eyes.

Daenerys did not turn back to look at him. Her fingers were still resting on the tabletop.

"You? In what capacity will you go? Fly to King's Landing in dragon form, then hover above the Red Keep and ask Cersei where she is hiding her wildfire?"

"Dragon form is out of the question, of course. But I can transform into a human."

Drogon left the corner. He walked over to the long table. His slit pupils turned toward the system panel in his consciousness space.

The system popped up a window.

"Full Humanoid Mode: Host has met the unlock conditions—1600 Bloodline Points, 80% Human Form Conversion Rate. You can consume 50 Attribute Points to temporarily hide all external dragon characteristics. This includes the dragon tail, scaled areas, and slit pupils."

"Unlock. 50 Attribute Points. Not expensive."

"Full Humanoid Mode unlocked."

Drogon turned to Daenerys. His tail flicked behind him. This was the last time this tail would flick on the conference table.

"I can retract my tail and scales, becoming a completely ordinary human. My slit pupils can be temporarily compressed into circles. No one will recognize that I am a dragon. I will infiltrate King's Landing as a merchant from Meereen to investigate the Red Keep's defenses, the wildfire reserves, and the shift schedule of the Gold Cloaks. I will return to Dragonstone in three days."

Daenerys's violet eyes stared straight at him. She did not answer immediately. She looked at his tail—the tail that had been wrapped around her arm since the first day he hatched, now flicking gently. Three days.

Completely transformed into a human. No tail. No scales. No one would know he was hers.

"Come to my chambers tonight. Everyone else, before tonight, compile the latest list of Gold Cloaks in King's Landing for me. Meeting adjourned."

She stood up. The legs of her chair scraped against the stone floor with a short, sharp sound.

The bedchamber. Dragon glass lamp oil burned in the lamps, the light softer than candlelight. Roasted meat. Bread. Wine. Two people.

Daenerys had shed her armor. She wore a deep purple silk gown, the craftsmanship of Qarth artisans.

The straps were extremely thin, revealing her collarbones. Her silver-gold hair was draped over her shoulders, the tips glowing warmly under the lamp. She sat by the table, her fingers slowly circling the rim of her wine glass. She hadn't drunk any.

Drogon pushed the door open and entered. He was not wearing his black and gold robe, just a short windbreaker and linen trousers. His hair was messy from the sea breeze. He held a small leather pouch in his hand, which he placed in front of her.

"I prepared something for you before I leave. Open it and see."

She untied the leather pouch. A few shards of dragon glass rolled out, their eerie blue glow dancing on the tabletop.

Then came a silver ring, the face of which was set with a deep purple gemstone. Inside the gem was a hairline fracture that refracted iridescent light under the lamplight. Purple. The exact same shade of purple as her eyes.

"I recognize the dragon glass. Where did the ring come from?"

"From the vein. Besides dragon bones and scrolls, Orys's secret chamber was buried with a few small things. This ring was what he gave to his spouse. The gemstone is called a Violet Flame Stone, found only deep within the volcanoes of Valyria. Since the Doom, no one has ever found a second one." His tail flicked gently behind him. "I thought it matched your eyes."

Daenerys looked down at the ring. She was silent for a long time. Then she gently slipped it onto her left index finger. It was too big.

The band hung loosely on her slender finger. She raised her hand, and the ring slid down to the base of her finger, then slid back.

"...It's too big. It doesn't fit."

Drogon leaned in to look. Her fingers were two sizes smaller than his. The hands of Old Valyria women were not this delicate.

"I forgot that your hands are smaller than those of Old Valyria women. I'll have it resized later. Wear it for now—put it on your thumb."

She took the ring off her index finger and put it on her left thumb. It fit perfectly.

The band caught just above her thumb joint, and the Violet Flame Stone refracted a tiny rainbow of light under the lamp, which fell onto her collarbone.

"So Orys Targaryen also gave his spouse a ring."

"Yes. His spouse was named Alya. The scroll mentioned it once. It said Alya didn't like wearing rings, she preferred necklaces. But he still gave her one every year. The reason was stupid—dragons like to see their spouses wearing shiny things."

A tiny arc appeared at the corner of Daenerys's mouth. "Your dragon reasons are indeed very stupid."

Drogon's tail flicked gently behind him. He pulled over a chair, sat down, and picked up a piece of roasted meat. The meat was cold, but he didn't care.

"Starting tomorrow, I won't be here to bother you for three days. What do you want to do tonight?"

Daenerys pulled the ring back from under the lamp. She picked up her wine glass. Her violet eyes watched him over the rim of the glass. The wine swirled gently in the cup, its surface reflecting the faint glow of the dragon glass lamp.

"Get you drunk. Then pry the truth out of you—whether there are those two relics in King's Landing that you specifically want to recover."

"Get me drunk? You forgot that dragons are immune to alcohol."

"I haven't forgotten. But the wine isn't for you to drink—it's for me to drink. I need an excuse."

She tipped her head back and drank more than half the glass. Her throat bobbed. A drop of wine slid down from the corner of her mouth, tracing along her chin and dripping onto her collarbone. She didn't wipe it away.