75: Chapter 73 The Priestess's Night

The night fire was still burning. Blue-green tongues of flame licked at the night sky. There was no moonlight in the early hours on Dragonstone, only the sulfurous steam rising from the volcano's crater and the eternal, inextinguishable holy fire on the altar.

Melisandre stood alone before the bonfire, her arms spread wide. Her red robes drifted slowly in the night wind, the hem illuminated to a deep crimson by the firelight. She had not slept—she had been standing there since dusk.

Images appeared in the flames, one after another: the True Dragon uniting with his core spouse in the bedchamber, the light of the blood bond piercing through the obsidian walls and reflecting in the fire. Then, he walked toward White Mane's room, the resonance of the Brand exploding into a small patch of dark golden sparks within the flames. Finally, he walked toward the night fire. Toward her. Exactly as she had foreseen.

She heard footsteps behind her. She did not turn around.

"You have come. I saw it in the flames—the Mother of Dragons has fallen into a deep sleep in your bed. The White Mane commander reached her limit. Then you walked toward me. Exactly as the vision I saw."

Drogon stopped three steps behind her. His upper body was bare, his scales still retaining the scent of Daenerys and the scratch marks from White Mane. The bite marks on his shoulders had scabbed over. His vertical pupils flickered with a light interwoven with deep blue and dark gold, reflected by the night fire. His tail swayed slowly.

"Since you saw it—why are you still waiting here?"

Melisandre finally turned around.

Her red eyes shone with a near-fanatical light in the reflection of the night fire, yet her voice maintained the coolness characteristic of a priestess.

"Because this is my mission. The Lord of Light did not have me follow the True Dragon just to interpret prophecies. In my veins flows the dragon blood left behind by the Dragon Kings—though only 0.3 percent remains, it is real.

It awakened the moment you absorbed the dragon bones of Orys. Tonight, its resonance is stronger than ever before. It is calling to me—"

She untied the sash of her red robe. It was silk, sliding open between her fingers. The robe slipped from her shoulders, falling onto the obsidian floor and spreading out like a circle of dark red ripples. The night fire behind her gilded her with a blue-green rim of light.

Her body appeared pale in the firelight. Slender. Lean. Her collarbones were deeply defined. Her waistline was fluid. Her age had been frozen by the dragon blood, and her skin still retained the luster of a thirty-year-old. Below her collarbone, near her heart, was a faint, almost invisible dark golden pattern—not a Brand, not a contract mark, but the only remnants left behind by the much older, diluted-for-dozens-of-generations bloodline of the Dragon Kings.

"—to offer myself to the True Dragon."

Drogon reached out. His fingertips touched the dark golden pattern beneath her collarbone.

The moment they touched, both of them shuddered. It was not the contract resonance of a blood bond or a Brand.

It was something more primal—a synchronized echo between bloodlines. The 0.3 percent of Dragon King blood within her, upon contacting his 1,600 points of bloodline, was like dry wood thrown into a fire. It ignited instantly.

In that moment, the night fire surged several meters higher.

The blue-green tongues of flame licked the carved runes on the edge of the altar. Ancient visions emerged within the fire—the Dragon Kings of Old Valyria, their spouses, their dragons circling above the crater. Black ones. Bronze ones. Cream-colored ones. Dragon wings blotted out the sun. In the center of the vision, the profile of a Progenitor Dragon with dark golden scales was quietly looking down upon the two of them.

Melisandre tilted her head back. Her eyes were filled with religious ecstasy and physiological tears. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, dripping onto her collarbone. Her voice trembled, yet her articulation was clear.

"The fire has acknowledged you. The ancestors of Orys Targaryen are watching as well. It is not just tonight—in the prophecies, there is a link between the Lord of Light and the ancestral lands of the dragons that even I cannot fully interpret. You are the core of every link. I am willing to use this body, with its remnant dragon blood, as a ladder for your Evolution to a higher bloodline."

Drogon pulled her from the side of the night fire toward himself. Her body was leaner than Daenerys's, but her body temperature was abnormally high—a side effect of having been scorched by dragon blood her entire life.

His palm pressed against her waist, feeling the pulsation of the blood vessels beneath her skin. His scales flared slightly the moment they touched her skin; it was an instinctive draconic reaction.

In the definition of dragon society, she was an "assimilable secondary spouse"—her dragon blood, though thin, could be assimilated by him, becoming the first step in expanding the members of his dragon nest.

"The ladder for Evolution you spoke of—how exactly does it work?"

Melisandre wrapped her arms around his neck. Her arms were slender and pale, with light blue veins visible beneath the skin. Her red eyes stared into his vertical pupils from an extremely close distance. She could see her own reflection in his pupils.

"By uniting with a human who possesses dragon blood, your bloodline attributes will receive a small but pure boost. At the same time—my bloodline concentration may also increase from 0.3 percent to 1 percent or higher after the union. This is a simplified version of how the Dragon Kings of Old Valyria procreated with human spouses—it does not require pregnancy or childbirth; it only requires the fusion and feedback of bloodlines. This is the most primal and most effective way for the dragon race to expand its dragon nest."

The moment the two of them united beside the night fire, all the visions within the bonfire exploded simultaneously.

The Dragon Kings of Old Valyria, their spouses, the circling dragons—all transformed into a sky full of golden sparks, gushing out from the flames and enveloping them. The sparks landed on the obsidian floor, each one emitting a very faint, delicate tinkling sound.

Melisandre's red hair was spread out across the obsidian floor. Her body glowed faintly with golden light amidst the bloodline resonance. It was not a reflection. It was a faint light emanating from her blood vessels after the 0.3 percent of dragon blood within her was activated.

She was more fragile than Daenerys, but the dragon blood granted her a kind of resilience that surpassed a human physique. Her body struggled to adapt to his intensity—her bones vibrated, but did not break. Her muscles spasmed, but did not tear.

Her limit was still far below that of White Mane, but the 0.3 percent of dragon blood was activated during the union, slowly climbing from 0.3. 0.5. 0.8. 0.9.

She looked up at the night fire. Her lips moved, reciting the prayers to the Lord of Light. The tone of the prayer shifted from steady to intermittent, and finally, only silent mouthing remained. Her throat bobbed up and down, unable to produce a sound.

Her red eyes reflected the sky full of sparks and his dark golden vertical pupils. The sparks extinguished one by one in her pupils. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, dripping onto the obsidian floor. It was not because of pain. It was because the prophecy she had waited for so long had finally been realized in a way she had never expected.

Drogon looked down at Melisandre. Her red hair was spread messily on the ground, and the sweat on her forehead reflected the light of the night fire. But her red eyes were brighter than ever.

Everything returned to silence. The night fire returned to its normal blue-green flickering. The flames no longer surged high. The visions no longer appeared.

Melisandre lay beside Drogon. Her red robe had been draped back over her. She was still breathing slightly heavily. But the light in her red eyes was brighter and calmer than ever.

She raised her hand, looking at her fingertips. Something that had never been there before—a very, very faint golden luster on her fingertips. It was not light; it was the color of the bloodline showing through as it flowed beneath her skin.

"Your dragon blood—it has risen from 0.3 to 1.2. Can you feel it?"

"I can feel it. The flames are clearer than before. I no longer just see you in the flames—I can feel your temperature in the flames. This is... the final reward the Lord of Light has given me."

Drogon sat up. His tail swayed gently behind him. The dark golden fire in his vertical pupils finally subsided to a near-normal level.

"So, your loyalty to my prophecy is at least half because you wanted to upgrade your own bloodline."

A faint smile appeared at the corners of Melisandre's mouth. No sophistry. No denial.

"Even a priestess has selfish desires. Would the True Dragon blame me?"

"I do not blame you. Equivalent exchange. Dragons like equivalent exchange." Drogon stood up. His tail coiled up her sash that was scattered on the ground and handed it to her. "Go back to your room and sleep. The night fire will cool down before dawn, and your human physique cannot withstand the volcanic winds of the early morning."

Melisandre took the sash. She stood up. She wrapped her red robe tightly around herself. She turned before leaving, her red eyes gazing at him.

"You are not completely finished yet. But the remaining part—is not something I can bear. Nor is it something the Mother of Dragons or the White Mane commander can bear. That surplus needs to be dispersed—and there is one more person by your side who is also waiting for you. It is just that she is not here at the moment."

Drogon's tail paused for a beat behind him.

"...You are talking about Missandei."

"The flames say—she just had a dream."