77: Chapter 75 The Stink of King's Landing

King's Landing harbor. Noon.

The mouth of the Blackwater River was crowded with ships. The masts were as dense as a bald man's scalp.

The sails were colorful—some patched, some not even patched, the holes flapping in the wind like a group of beggars slapping their tattered pockets.

Stevedores on the docks carried cargo with bare shoulders. Fishmongers shouted at the top of their lungs, "Blackwater River trout—fresh!"

Prostitutes leaned against the pier pilings cracking melon seeds, spitting the shells into the water.

Peddlers of fake jewelry shoved glass beads into the hands of country folk, shouting, "Moonstones from the Summer Islands!"

The air was foul.

The saltiness of sea salt. The rot of stinking fish. The pungency of human excrement.

The cloying scent of cheap perfume. The four scents mixed together, topped with a layer of acidic garbage stench baked by the noon sun—like someone had overturned a bucket of slop in an alley and let it bake for three days.

Drogon walked down the gangplank.

In full human form—no tail, no scales, slit pupils compressed into deep brown round pupils.

A dark gray merchant's robe with the sleeves rolled up twice. His shoulders tilted slightly forward, and his gait had the swaying rhythm of an ocean-faring trader. Carrying simple luggage, he looked just like a second-rate merchant from Essos looking to strike it rich.

He took a deep breath.

Then he regretted it.

"This stench—it's ten times worse than the fish markets in Slavers Bay. How do people in Westeros survive?"

System pop-up.

"King's Landing has a population of about five hundred thousand. The city's sewage system was built during the reign of Aegon I and is severely overloaded.

The current concentration of harmful gases in the air will not affect dragon health. However, it is recommended that the host minimize deep breathing. Also—twelve steps to your front right, an oyster vendor is giving you change and has shorted you two copper coins."

Drogon's deep brown round pupils swept over.

The vendor was stuffing a handful of copper coins into a sailor's hand. The sailor didn't count them. Drogon counted for him. Two short. His fingers twitched under his robe's sleeves—the instinct for greed, suppressed in his full human form, was actually more sensitive, like a person who had been starving for three days smelling roasted meat.

Every docked copper coin felt like a needle pricking his brain.

"Two copper coins. Not worth exposing myself. Endure it."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Turned and walked into the dockside crowd.

Flea Bottom. The lowest slum district in King's Landing.

The wooden houses on both sides of the narrow alley were crooked, and the tattered clothes drying upstairs fluttered in the wind like a group of hanged men waving.

Below, sewage flowed freely, its color indefinable—green? Brown? Either way, not a color water should be. A child without pants was playing in the mud at the alley entrance, his face caked with a layer of dried mud.

Two old prostitutes sat on a doorstep cracking melon seeds, looking at him as if he were a piece of walking fat.

The "Broken Sail" inn was at the end of the alley. A three-story wooden building. The sign depicted a torn sailboat, half the paint chipped off, the bow looking like it had been gnawed by a sea monster.

The innkeeper was a mute old man with white hair and knuckles as thick as tree burls, communicating by writing with charcoal on a slate—his handwriting was better than Drogon's own.

The room was tiny.

A bed with a yellowing straw mattress on the slats. A table with a crack in the surface—splitting from the corner to the center, wide enough to fit a silver stag. A chair with three legs, the fourth tied on with hemp rope. A rat hole in the corner.

Drogon threw his luggage on the bed. Quickly inspected—wall soundproofing: solid wood. Window escape route: outside is the back alley, jumping down would land him on the ground, but he'd step into a garbage pile. Floor secret compartment: lifted the straw mattress, nothing there, only a few loose floorboards.

"This place is about ten thousand grades worse than my treasury in Meereen. But safety first. System, scan the surroundings."

System pop-up.

"Scanning fifty-meter radius: No dragon bloodline reaction. No known Abyss Demon Realm signals. Gold Cloaks patrols pass under the inn on average every forty-five minutes—higher frequency than the intelligence provided by Jorah. Originally every sixty minutes. Speculation: Cersei has increased the patrol density in Flea Bottom, likely related to the recent Sparrow movement."

"Sparrows?"

"'Sparrows'—a grassroots religious movement worshipping the Seven. Recently spreading rapidly in King's Landing, with the leader known as the 'High Sparrow'.

This movement poses a potential threat to Cersei's rule, and the increased Gold Cloaks patrols are likely related to this. It is recommended to avoid contact with Sparrow members during the intelligence-gathering phase to avoid getting involved in religious conflicts. These people's method of preaching is standing on street corners shouting 'Repent'—at extreme volume."

Drogon walked to the window. Looked down through the window crack. A Gold Cloaks patrol was passing by—six men. The leader held a halberd, his gait lazy, his belly pushing against his belt. But the number was double what Jorah's intelligence indicated.

"One patrol every forty-five minutes. Denser than the defenses of Yunkai. Cersei isn't afraid of the Targaryens—she's afraid of the people in her own city."

He closed the window crack. Sat on the bed. Pulled a piece of hard bread from his luggage. Chewed twice. His brows furrowed.

"The bread is mixed with sawdust. The baker in Flea Bottom is quite the talent."

He turned the bread over to look. The sawdust was fine, mixed with the flour, the color almost indistinguishable. Not accidental—it was intentional.

"…Mixed with sawdust and so evenly, too. This person might have worked as a kitchen assistant at The Citadel."

Afternoon. The spice market.

This was the border between Flea Bottom and the wealthy district. Stalls lined the street, selling cinnamon from Essos, pepper from the Summer Islands, saffron, and myrrh.

The stench in the air was mostly covered by spices—not gone, just suppressed by cinnamon and pepper, like sprinkling a thick layer of five-spice powder over stinking fish.

Drogon wandered the market under the guise of the merchant "Gal". While observing the Gold Cloaks' patrol routes, he chatted casually with the vendors.

An old man selling saffron told him the east wall of the Red Keep was being repaired recently—the plaster had peeled off and injured a Gold Cloak.

A middle-aged woman selling pepper complained that the Gold Cloaks had changed shifts, and the new captain was greedier than the old one, collecting two extra silver stags in protection money every week. After cursing, she added, "May the Seven let him die at the hands of the Sparrows."

Everything was going smoothly. Until he passed that stall specializing in high-end spices.

On the stall sat a row of sealed clay jars. One of the labels read "Valyrian Black Salt · Pre-Doom". The jar mouth was sealed with wax, and the wax seal already had a crack. A faint scent escaped from the crack—sulfur. Volcanic rock. Salt. A metallic scent mixed with extremely fine traces of dragon glass powder.

Drogon's feet stopped on their own.

"Black salt. Real black salt. Not ordinary volcanic salt—this jar is mixed with dragon glass powder. Curing food with it can enhance trace element attributes.

I found a pinch in the Yunkai treasury and ate it as a snack that night. This jar has at least half a pound. Half a pound. Enough for me to eat for a week."

System emergency pop-up.

"Warning. Detected host's heart rate suddenly accelerated to 105 beats per minute—far higher than the resting value in full human form. The dragon's instinct for greed is breaking through the suppression of the full human form. It is recommended to leave the spice market immediately. Otherwise, you may expose abnormal behavior in front of the vendor—such as pupils spontaneously flickering or scale patterns appearing on your fingers."

"No. I'm buying it. I'm a merchant, and merchants buying spices is only natural. I can buy it. I'll ask him the price."

He walked to the stall. His deep brown round pupils stared at that jar of black salt. He tried to keep his voice calm—too calm, calm to the point of being unnatural.

"Boss, this jar—"

The vendor was a fat man with a face full of flab. He grinned, revealing gold teeth. Embedded in the gold tooth was an extremely small fake ruby—too obviously fake, the color dull.

"You have an eye for quality, my lord. This is the real deal, Valyrian Black Salt from before the Doom. There's only this one jar left in all of King's Landing. Three gold dragons."

Drogon's eyes contracted slightly in the reflection of the gold tooth. Three gold dragons. This price was practically robbery. Three gold dragons could buy a donkey. Could buy three hundred loaves of bread. But the instinct for greed inside him was currently pounding frantically on his reason— "Worth it. More worth it than buying gems. Gems can't be eaten. This can be eaten."

"One."

"Two and a half."

"One and two silver stags."

"…Deal. Are you from Meereen, my lord? Sounds like it. Meereenese merchants certainly know how to haggle—though you're a bit too good at it; I didn't even make the cost of the wax seal on this jar."

Drogon paid the money. Wrapped the clay jar in cloth and tucked it into his bosom. His fingers trembled slightly under his robe sleeves—not from the cold, but because his dragon instinct, suppressed for too long and finally satisfied, was celebrating.

It was singing a song of victory that only he could hear, with lyrics roughly like "Half a pound of black salt, half a pound of black salt, half a pound of black salt."

"System. Did I show any scales just now?"

"No. But when the host was haggling, your right pupil briefly reverted to a slit pupil form, lasting about 0.3 seconds. The vendor didn't notice—he was busy counting money. Next time, please do not engage in high-intensity haggling while in full human form."

"…0.3 seconds. Does that count as breaking a record?"

"The host's self-control in suppressing instincts is already top-tier among dragons. But please realize, host—you are playing Tetris with the primal desires of a dragon. Eventually, you will press the wrong key. The last time you almost pressed the wrong key was in Yunkai, when your tail smashed someone's counter."