76: Chapter 74 The Dawn in Meereen

Meereen. The Great Pyramid. Acting City Lord's office. Five in the morning.

There is a time difference between Dragonstone and Meereen—it is four in the morning on Dragonstone, while Meereen is in the darkest moment before dawn.

Missandei had fallen asleep slumped over her desk.

Open before her was a half-written notebook—Chapter Nine of "A Preliminary Study of Dragon Social Hierarchies and Contract Systems." The title was written in the Common Tongue, with annotations added below in Old Valyria.

The dragon-glass lamp beside her had burned down to its last flicker. The lamp oil was almost dry. She was draped in a thin blanket, which Grey Worm had placed over her during his night watch. Grey Worm had not woken her.

She suddenly frowned in her sleep.

She had a very vivid dream. Not the kind that is blurry and forgotten upon waking. It was the kind where every detail was terrifyingly clear. In the dream, Drogon stood by the Nightfire Altar on Dragonstone, dark golden flames burning in his vertical pupils.

He was bare-chested, his scales stained with the scent of sea breeze and volcanic sulfur. His presence traversed the sea and desert through some channel she could not explain, settling deep within her consciousness. It was not a blood bond. It was not a Brand.

She had nothing. But when he called to her, she heard it. Low. Carrying the guttural tremor unique to the dragon race.

"Little translator, which chapter have you written up to in your notebook?"

She jolted awake. Her large amber eyes blinked. Then her face turned bright red, blushing from her earlobes down to her neck. She looked down at her notebook—the title of Chapter Nine was "Hypothesis on Energy Release Patterns During the Peak of Dragon Lord Courtship." She slammed the notebook shut. Then she stood up and walked to the window, pushing it open. Northwest. The direction of Dragonstone. The sea breeze poured in, blowing through her curly black hair.

"...It's impossible for me to have heard his voice. He is hundreds of nautical miles away. This is impossible."

A raven suddenly flew in from outside the window. It was not an official Dragonstone raven—those all wore red and gold leg bands.

This raven was pitch black, extremely thin, with ruffled feathers; it was obviously wild. It landed on the windowsill, tilting its head to look at her. A small letter tube was tied to its leg.

Missandei untied the letter tube. Inside was only a tightly rolled strip of parchment. She unfolded it. The handwriting was crooked, the ink uneven, and in several places, too much ink had been dipped, causing it to smudge into a blob. But every letter was discernible.

"The night before the King's Landing mission. There are some things I want to ask you. Regarding certain clauses of the dragon contract. I'll be back in three days. Don't stay up late."

She clutched the note. The flush on her face spread from her ears to her neck. Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear. It was some emotion she had not yet learned to name. She bit her lip and quickly wrote a line on the corner of her notebook— "He took the initiative to write a letter. The handwriting is extremely ugly. Speculation: Emotional state is abnormal." After writing it, she felt it wasn't enough, so she added another sentence— "But the content of the letter... is concern."

She stopped writing. She looked at the words she had written. She flipped the notebook to a new page. She began to write the first draft annotations for Chapter Nine— "Possibility of remote sensing: Diffusion effect of the blood bond link? Timeliness of raven correspondence: Coincidence with dream time (to be verified)."

Then she stood up. She walked to the window. She pressed the strip of parchment against her chest. Not just her chest. The location of her heart. There was no mark there. No Brand. No dragon claw print. Nothing at all. But she could feel her heartbeat accelerating. Synchronized with that voice from her dream.

The horizon began to pale.

Dragonstone port. In the thin mist, a small merchant ship was weighing anchor. The ship's sails were linen dyed grayish-brown—dyed temporarily by the Dothraki, with uneven dye, leaving streaks of dark and light on the sail surface.

The sailors on board were Dothraki selected by White Mane, disguised as crew members of a Free Cities merchant vessel. Their arakhs were hidden in secret compartments beneath the deck.

Drogon stood on the pier. In complete human form.

His tail had been retracted. All areas covered by scales were hidden. His vertical pupils were compressed into deep brown round pupils.

He was wearing merchant robes brought from Qarth—deep blue silk, inlaid with silver thread embroidery, unearthed from the relics of Xaro's family. The robe was a bit long, and the sleeves were rolled up twice. His hair was windswept and messy.

But his human face, devoid of dragon characteristics, made him look like just a sharp-featured, black-haired young man. His skin tone was slightly dark. His cheekbone line was rather hard. Deep within his pupils, a trace of extremely subtle dark gold remained—unless one looked closely in the midday sun, no one would be able to notice.

Daenerys stood at the end of the pier. She was wearing a long cloak over her nightgown. Her silver-gold hair was blown about by the morning breeze. Her complexion was slightly pale—the mark of excessive physical exertion from last night. Her eyes were slightly dark underneath. But there was no fatigue in her purple eyes, only a kind of calm, a stillness that suppressed her worry to the very depths.

She adjusted the collar of his robe for him. Her fingers slid slowly along the edge of the collar, smoothing out the wrinkles. Finally, they rested on his chest—the silver mark could not be seen in his complete human form, but she could precisely perceive its location under his clothes through the blood bond. Her thumb pressed on that spot. She paused for three seconds.

"Three days. Seventy-two hours. If you are even one hour late, I will send a ship to King's Landing harbor to collect you."

Drogon's lips curled slightly. He used his index finger to gently poke the purple flame stone ring on her thumb. The ring refracted a tiny rainbow light in the morning sun, which fell upon her collarbone.

"Fine. But I have to go to the underground of the Red Keep to recover the relics first—the system says those two relics are very close to each other, possibly in a secret chamber sealed by wildfire. Cersei probably doesn't know that there is treasure buried beneath her feet."

"You don't need to get the treasure. You must come back."

She paused. Her thumb pressed lightly on that invisible mark on his chest.

"By the way—what you said last night, about that dragon lord punished by chains and his spouse ruling together for forty-seven years."

"Then we shall rule for forty-seven years as well. And then you can go find other women."

Drogon's tail did not exist in his complete human form. But his buttock muscles habitually twitched. It was as if he wanted to flick his tail but swished at empty air.

"About last night—you know."

Daenerys's thumb was still pressed on his chest. Her voice was flat.

"blood bond resonance. The first time you went to find White Mane, my heartbeat accelerated along with yours. The second time you went to find Melisandre, I felt your bloodline attributes rise..."

Daenerys's lips curled slightly. She reached out. She patted his face. Her fingers gave his cheek a gentle pinch.

"Go. Come back in three days. When you return, we will settle the score about the bite mark on White Mane's shoulder last night."

"She bit herself. I didn't bite her."

"I know. But when she bit you—your heartbeat sped up. I counted."

She turned around. She walked toward the castle. She did not look back. Her cloak lifted slightly in the morning breeze. The hem of the cloak dragged on the wooden planks of the pier.

The merchant ship slowly sailed away from the port. The sails were filled with the morning breeze.

The streaks of uneven dye on the grayish-brown sail surface turned into dark and light golden-brown stripes under the morning sun. The Dothraki sailors on deck pretended to adjust the ropes, while actually whispering in the dothraki language to complain that the sea breeze was too weak.

Drogon stood at the stern. His deep brown pupils in his complete human form gazed at the gradually shrinking Dragonstone. On the castle's dragon-shaped towers, the three-headed dragon banner fluttered in the morning breeze. The dragon roost beside the tower was empty—Rhaegal and Viserion were not yet grown and were still sleeping in the cave.

He raised his right hand and pressed it against his own chest. That location had no scales and no silver mark in his complete human form. But the blood bond link was still there.

He could perceive her heartbeat. Steady. Firm. Not worry. It was waiting. In another direction, he could perceive the echo of the Brand—the back of White Mane's neck was slightly warm.

She was awake and sharpening her blade. And further away, in the direction of the Nightfire Altar, a faint dragon blood resonance was still pulsing—Melisandre was praying. The rhythm of her prayer had changed. Faster. Steadier.

"Three women. Each one more enduring than the last. And another little translator far away in Meereen—."

Drogon closed his eyes. The sea breeze blew against his face. In his complete human form, there were no scales, and his skin felt the chill of the sea breeze directly. He was not used to it.

"King's Landing. Red Keep. iron throne. Relics. Cersei. wildfire. And that old thing, the Night King. Wait for it. The dragon is coming."

The ship sailed into open waters. Ahead, at the end of the waves of the Narrow Sea, the coastline of the continent of Westeros was vaguely visible. Gray-green. Cliffs. Reefs. Black beaches. Further away, in the direction of King's Landing, a wisp of black smoke was rising from the chimney of the Red Keep. It was stretched into a thin line in the morning breeze.