74: Chapter 72 Go Find White Mane

The system popped up a window.

"Host physiological status detected: With a bloodline of 1,600 points, once the draconic sexual cycle is activated, the time required for complete release is approximately four to five times that of a human of equivalent size.

As a pure human without dragon blood, Daenerys Targaryen has a tolerance limit of approximately twenty-five percent of the host's full requirement. She is currently in a deep sleep following extreme exhaustion; continuing is not recommended."

Drogon gently moved her head from his chest onto the pillow.

Her silver hair was spread across the stone pillow, and her breathing was steady. The amethyst ring on his thumb was still worn, pressing against her cheek and leaving a faint red mark. He gently turned the ring to the side of his thumb.

"Then what should I do? I'll go splash seawater on myself."

"Cold water is almost ineffective against the draconic nature of a 1,600-point bloodline. This was verified last time at Dragon Tooth Reef. It is recommended that the host consider seeking an outlet through the established 'secondary mate' within draconic society.

Illyse White-Mane: The strongest female warrior of the Dothraki, possessing a physique far exceeding that of ordinary human females, and bearing the Dominance Brand, she enjoys the legal status of a secondary mate within draconic society."

Drogon's tail drew a circle on the ground, then stopped.

"She knows what Daenerys and I were doing—the Brand is bidirectional. She should be able to feel it by now.

If I go to her now, it's equivalent to telling her that my core mate isn't enough, and I've come to ask you to take over. She will chop me."

"According to Contract Clause Chapter 2, Section 4—the secondary mate bears the obligation of assistance when the core mate is unable to satisfy the Dragon Lord's physiological needs. This clause cannot be overridden by the Right of Punishment.

The 'temporary mate outlet' clause that Illyse White-Mane voluntarily proposed during the treasure vault conversation is itself a modern expression of this contractual obligation. She will not chop you. She might sharpen her blade, but she will not chop."

Drogon stood up and covered Daenerys with the thin quilt. She turned over unconsciously, her fingers gripping the corner of the quilt.

He glanced at her, then turned and pushed open the door. His tail flicked lightly behind him. There was no light in the corridor.

White Mane was not asleep.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her great blade resting horizontally across her knees.

The whetstone moved rhythmically across the blade. Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. The sound of sharpening carried far in the silent night. Her amber eyes glimmered in the darkness.

The Brand on the back of her neck continued to radiate warmth—that was the overflow of Drogon's emotions. She could feel his excitement.

His possessiveness toward Daenerys, and the lingering heat of that excitement not yet faded. It was like a bonfire burning in the distance; her Brand was a stone being heated beside the fire.

The door was pushed open gently.

Drogon stood in the doorway, his upper body bare. His scales shimmered with a dull metallic luster in the moonlight. There were a few extremely fine red marks on his shoulders—not scratches, but marks left by Daenerys's fingernails. His hair was even messier.

Dim golden light still lingered in his vertical pupils. His tail swayed extremely slowly behind him—that was the residual fluctuation after extreme restraint.

White Mane did not stop sharpening the blade. Shhh. Shhh. She lifted her amber eyes to glance at him, then continued sharpening.

"Your mate is asleep."

"...Yes."

"But you haven't finished yet."

"...Yes."

White Mane placed the whetstone on the small table beside the bed. The whetstone collided with the stone surface, making a dull clacking sound.

She laid the great blade horizontally on the side of the bed—within arm's reach. Then she stood up.

She threw her silver-white braids behind her shoulders, revealing the dark golden Brand on the back of her neck. The Brand was scorching. In the moonlight, the skin around the edge of the Brand could be seen slightly reddened.

Her voice was flat, as if she were delivering a tactical briefing.

"Additional Clause, Article One. I said—your draconic nature needs an outlet, I will be it. These words were not just being polite."

White Mane did not wait for Drogon to answer. She stepped forward. Her right hand pressed against the silver mate mark on his chest. Her left hand clasped the Brand on the back of her own neck. Her movements were precise, without a trace of hesitation.

The moment the two made contact, a resonance never before seen by a third party occurred between the Dominance Brand and the mate mark.

Dark golden light patterns lit up simultaneously from the back of her neck and his chest. They spread along her arms and his chest, shrouding the two of them in the same glimmer. The light of the Brand was brighter than usual. It was not a warning. It was a connection.

Her body shuddered slightly, but her voice remained steady.

"This Brand—Melisandre said it was bidirectional. You can feel my emotions, and I can feel yours. I know how you feel right now—wanting more possession, more marking, more confirmation.

You have marked your core mate, but it is not enough. A dragon's desire does not end because one mate is satisfied. It is searching for the next object that can be possessed."

Drogon's vertical pupils constricted slightly. The scales on his chest where she pressed were slightly scorching. Her palms had calluses from blades. They were rough, pressed against his smooth scales.

"You read that from the Brand."

"No need to read it." White Mane's tone was very flat.

"A Khal on the Dothraki Sea will go to conquer his Khaleesi after a battle. If that is not enough, he will go to conquer the next woman. You are stronger than a Khal. Your desires are naturally greater than a Khal's, too. This is the norm for the strong. I do not object."

She released his chest, stepped back, and turned to walk toward the bed. Then she turned her head—her amber eyes held a cold, challenging light in the moonlight. The corners of her mouth curled into a tiny arc. It was not a smile. It was the expression of a hunter looking at prey.

"But let's agree on this beforehand—I am not the Mother of Dragons. I am not someone who lies underneath waiting for you to come. I am someone who has been bitten by you. Tonight, I will bite back."

She did not wait for him to react. She suddenly grabbed his wrist and pushed him against the wall. The force was great. Her armor collided with his scales, making a dull sound.

She was not much shorter than him, their shoulders almost level. She bit into his shoulder—human teeth could not even leave a mark on dragon scales, but she was not biting the scales.

It was the extremely thin circle of skin at the edge of the scales that was not covered by them. Her teeth sank in. Blood seeped out. Dragon blood exploded on the tip of her tongue, fishy and metallic in taste.

This was not submission. It was a response.

Drogon's tail instinctively wrapped around her waist, pulling her toward him.

Her waist and abdomen pressed against his. The metallic coolness of the armor was transmitted through the scales.

She released her teeth, her lips still stained with his blood. She cursed softly in the dothraki language.

Then she took the initiative to kiss him—it was not a gentle kiss. It was a biting, battle-hungry kiss. Her canine teeth knocked against his lower lip.

Illyse White-Mane's physique was indeed far superior to Daenerys's. Decades of daily combat training on the Dothraki Sea had endowed her with astonishing endurance and muscle control.

Every one of her muscles knew how to conserve strength during long periods of high-intensity exertion, and how to remain conscious when breathing was compressed to the shortest rhythm. This was not a talent. It was the price of survival.

When she rode on top of him, her silver-white braids whipped arcs through the air.

Her bronze skin and his black dragon scales formed a sharp visual contrast. Moonlight shone in from the porthole, illuminating the old scars on her shoulder blades into a silver-white color.

The Brand on the back of her neck remained scorching throughout, faithfully transmitting the resonance of every heartbeat between him and her to each other. She could feel every pulsation in his chest. He could feel every wave of pleasure deep within her abdomen, amplified by the Brand.

It was unknown how much time had passed. Her arms began to tremble. It was not from exhaustion; it was the muscles spasming autonomously under the limit.

Sweat dripped from her braids, hitting the scales on his chest and flowing down through the gaps in the scales.

Her panting became heavy and rapid, and for the first time, that pair of never-yielding amber eyes showed a brief daze—pupils dilated, focus blurred.

She forced herself to hold on, her hands pressing tightly against his shoulders. Her fingernails dug into that area of soft skin on his shoulder blades not covered by scales.

Drogon clasped her waist and gently lifted her off him.

Her body was still trembling slightly. He covered her with the thin quilt, tucking the corner under her shoulders.

"Enough. You lasted three times longer than the Khaleesi. Any more and you will be dehydrated."

White Mane lay on her side on the cot. Her silver hair was messily plastered against her face. The quilt was wrapped up to her collarbone. Her voice was hoarse and tired, but a hint of an unyielding arc still hung at the corners of her mouth.

"Next time... I'll drink two more bags of water before I come."

The tip of Drogon's tail gently touched the Brand on the back of her neck.

The temperature had dropped from scorching to warm. The skin around the edge of the Brand was still slightly red.

"There won't be a next time. Next time, I'll fly directly to King's Landing."

"There are women in King's Landing. You will still be like this."

Drogon's tail stiffened for a moment behind him. He didn't speak.

White Mane turned her head. Her amber eyes looked at him. Her voice was still hoarse, but very clear.

"Go. You haven't finished yet. I can feel it—the Brand is still hot. Go find that red-robed woman. She has seen your shadow in the flames; she won't refuse. And she has dragon blood—even if it's only a little bit. She might be able to endure more than I can."

Silence. Drogon's tail drew a circle extremely slowly behind him. Then he leaned down and touched her forehead extremely lightly. It was not a kiss. It was the action of a hatchling rubbing its snout against its mother's wings in dragon form. Scales brushed against her skin.

"Thank you. Sleep."

White Mane closed her eyes. As he turned away, the corners of her mouth moved slightly. It was not a smile. It was a slight relaxation after something had been confirmed.