78: Chapter 76 Black Salt Almost Became a Murder Weapon

Evening. Beneath Flea Bottom.

After Drogon slipped him a silver stag, the spice vendor dipped his finger in tea and drew an inverted triangle on the table—the mark of the black market entrance.

He lowered his voice, saying, "Don't tell anyone it was me who told you," then immediately packed up his stall, as if afraid of being chased by something.

Drogon followed the mark and found an abandoned cellar.

He pushed open a wooden door soaked in grease and walked down dozens of stone steps.

The stone steps were slippery—not from water, but from oil.

Decades of lamp oil and wine stains had seeped into the stone.

The underground black market of King's Landing.

A series of converted abandoned cellars.

Torches were stuck into the walls, their smoke blackening the ceiling.

The stalls sold a motley assortment of goods—stolen noble jewelry, banned manuscripts from The Citadel, forbidden formulas leaked from the Guild of Alchemists, and genuine or fake valyrian steel weapons.

The air was thick with the smell of torch smoke, old coins, and the excitement of illicit deals—that "you can buy anything here" scent of a dark room.

Drogon stopped at a stall in the deepest part of the black market.

A sword leaned against the corner.

It had no scabbard.

The blade was covered in rust-colored stains, but under the torchlight, the edge shimmered with the distinctive dark ripples of valyrian steel—like an oil film floating on water, black and gray, with light flowing within.

The stall owner was a middle-aged man missing his left ear.

His voice was hoarse, and an old knife scar stretched from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth—perhaps he was caught stealing, or perhaps he was slashed for swindling.

In the black market, both possibilities were plausible.

"This lord has an eye for quality. A valyrian steel sword. Dug out from the ruins of Storms End. They say it was once an heirloom of House Baratheon. The price isn't high—five hundred gold dragons."

Drogon crouched down.

He reached out and gripped the hilt.

He closed his eyes.

Dragon Heritage Perception automatically scanned in his consciousness space.

The ripples on the blade—every ripple was a memory left behind by the folding and forging of valyrian steel.

But the ripples suddenly broke two inches below the crossguard, then started again.

Forged weld.

Someone had heated and welded the broken ends of a snapped valyrian steel sword, then aged it.

The rust was created by soaking it in vinegar; it was at most three years old.

He opened his eyes.

A faint, cold smile curled the corner of his mouth.

He lowered his voice so that only the stall owner could hear.

"The blade is indeed valyrian steel—but it was re-welded after the original sword was broken.

The seam is two inches below the crossguard.

The original was likely a broken sword; you had someone weld the break, then aged it.

Dug out from the ruins of Storms End?

The last siege of Storms End was a hundred years ago; the rust on this sword was made by soaking it in vinegar, at most three years old."

The stall owner's face turned from red to white.

His lips trembled.

His voice dropped extremely low—he was almost speaking with just breath.

"My lord—which path do you walk?"

"A Meereen merchant. I specialize in collecting dragon relics.

Although this sword is fake, the valyrian steel itself is real.

Thirty gold dragons. Nod if you're selling."

The stall owner gritted his teeth.

The scar on his face twitched, and the old scar near his ear twitched along with it.

But eventually, he nodded—nodding very forcefully, like his neck was cramping.

"Thirty. Thirty it is. My lord, please don't tell anyone outside—I still need to run my stall."

Drogon paid the gold coins.

He wrapped the welded sword in coarse cloth and slung it on his back.

He stopped half a step before turning to leave.

He tossed a sentence over his shoulder without looking back.

"That dragonbone dagger by your right leg—it's also fake.

The dragonbone is sheep bone that has been bleached and textured.

Next time you forge, don't use sheep. Use cow. Sheep bone is too light."

The stall owner stood there, stunned.

He looked down at his dagger—the one by his right leg; the dragonbone color was too pale, and the texture was too uniform.

Real dragonbone texture is chaotic, like tree roots.

He looked up again at Drogon's back disappearing into the depths of the black market and swallowed hard.

Then, he silently removed the dagger from the stall and stuffed it into a sack at his feet.

System pop-up.

"Host successfully identified two counterfeits using Dragon Heritage Perception.

Greedy instinct indirectly satisfied—acquired real valyrian steel at a low price.

However, the perception also reminds the host: there are indeed two genuine relics within King's Landing, and their location signals overlap deeper in the black market underground.

Speculation: There exists an old, not fully sealed passage between the secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep and this black market."

"An old passage. Possibly leading to the Dragonpit."

"Extremely high probability. When The Mad King Aerys was on the throne, he expanded the network of secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep—he feared assassination, so the tunnels were dug denser than the sewers. Some of the tunnels connect to the Dragonpit.

These tunnels were sealed after Robert's Rebellion, but the quality of the sealing varies.

The entrance to one of them is at the lowest level of the black market, half-hidden by a pile of broken wooden crates.

The host can enter from there."

"Explore the bottom level of the black market first. The relic signals are getting stronger."

Drogon tightened the welded sword on his back.

The blade, wrapped in coarse cloth, dug into his shoulder blades; it was lighter than it looked—the density of valyrian steel is a mystery.

He passed through the deepest part of the black market and walked toward the iron door half-hidden by broken wooden crates.

Twilight. The main square of the Red Keep.

Drogon mingled with the crowd.

Standing at the edge of the square with the air of an ocean-faring merchant watching the excitement, he chewed on a cinnamon stick he'd swiped from the spice market.

The sharp, spicy taste of cinnamon suppressed the taste of sawdust bread in his mouth.

His deep brown round pupils scanned the ballistae on the city walls, silently counting in his mind.

The Red Keep stood tall on Aegon's High Hill.

The pale red walls looked like congealed blood in the setting sun.

Outside the main gate was a wide square, where Gold Cloaks guards checked everyone entering and leaving—the checks weren't strict; most of the time they just glanced and let them pass.

King's Landing's city defenses had rusted after over a decade of peace, like a sword that had never been drawn from its scabbard.

Twelve ballistae were visible on the front of the city wall.

The guard rotation interval was about forty minutes—he timed it in his mind.

The winch for the main gate's iron portcullis was on the left side of the gatehouse, guarded by two Gold Cloaks—one of whom was dozing off.

Gate closing time: sunset.

A magnificent cavalcade slowly entered the square.

The watching commoners craned their necks to see the spectacle.

A few children squeezed through the gaps between adults' legs to the front row, and an old woman pressed her hands together, muttering something—it sounded like "Roses" and "May the Seven bless us."

In the center of the cavalcade.

A young woman sat sidesaddle on a white horse.

Her brown curly hair was styled into an intricate Highgarden-style bun.

Adorned in her hair were golden rose accessories—every petal reflecting the setting sun.

She wore a long green silk dress with a golden woven belt at her waist, outlining a slender but by no means fragile waistline.

Her face was not stunningly beautiful—not the kind that was breathtakingly gorgeous.

But the curve of her mouth made Drogon's pupils constrict sharply beneath his human disguise.

The way she smiled was not innocent.

She knew she was alluring, and she knew how to use it.

On the black horse next to her sat a golden-haired young man.

Thick lips.

His chin was held higher than a dragon's horn.

He wore a red coat embroidered with a golden lion and a decorative dagger at his waist—the rubies embedded in the scabbard were fake, their color dull.

He spoke loudly, intentionally making sure everyone in the square could hear.

"My dear fiancée. My father says the grain sent by House Tyrell has arrived. Your family's grain—as punctual as always. Just like you, you never let me down."

Margaery took his hand. She dismounted.

Her skirt swept elegantly across the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Her smile was as sweet as a peach from Highgarden—the kind that was fully ripe, dripping with juice at the first bite.

"Your Grace is too kind. Highgarden will always be loyal to the iron throne. The grain, the roses, and my heart—are all yours."

The watching commoners applauded sparsely. No cheering.

The commoners of King's Landing did not like Joffrey—his golden hair reflected the setting sun, looking greasier than usual, like it hadn't been washed in three days.

But they liked Margaery. At least she didn't shoot crossbow bolts at them.

Drogon's deep brown round pupils turned toward Joffrey's neck.

That neck was slender and pale, with a prominent Adam's apple, and veins faintly visible beneath the skin.

A single swipe of a dagger could sever it.

The draconic desire for destruction, suppressed by his complete human form, was growling deep within him—the sound roiling up from the depths of his chest, like magma bubbling in a volcano.

"This brat is Cersei's eldest son. Kill him. Kill him and Cersei will go mad. A mad iron throne is easier to attack."

System emergency pop-up. Red text.

"Warning. The host's desire for destruction is suppressed by half in complete human form, but it is rebounding violently due to direct visual contact with the enemy. The host's right hand has begun to reach unconsciously toward the waist—but in complete human form, there is no dagger at the waist, only a jar of black salt. Please maintain restraint. Assassinating Joffrey now will trigger a full lockdown of King's Landing prematurely, and the relic recovery mission will be forced to abort."

Drogon looked down.

His right hand was pressing against that jar of black salt at his waist.

His fingers had already hooked around the edge of the clay jar—not gripping, but hooking, the kind of hook that made his knuckles turn white.

He took a deep breath.

He moved his right hand away from his waist and shoved it into his robe pocket.

The dragon glass shards in his pocket were icy cold, pressing against the gaps between his fingers.

"... Black salt. I almost tried to stab Joffrey with a jar of black salt."

He clenched his fingers around the dragon glass shards in his pocket.

The sharp edges of the shards pressed into his palm.

Pain.

But pain could keep him clear-headed—more effective than deep breathing.

The desire for destruction slowly receded in his veins, retreating from his throat to his chest, from his chest to his fingertips, and finally dripping out from his fingertips, absorbed by the dragon glass shards.

"System. What was the peak fluctuation of my desire for destruction just now?"

"Forty-two percent. Reaching this value even under the suppression of the complete human form indicates that the host's hostility toward House Lannister has entered an instinctual level, approaching a conditioned reflex.

It is recommended to avoid visual contact with Joffrey or Cersei again while in King's Landing.

Otherwise, next time it might not be black salt, but a direct strike—the speed of the strike will be faster than reason."

"Received. Don't look. Endure. Settle the score on the day of the siege."

He moved his gaze away from Joffrey's neck.

He turned and prepared to retreat from the crowd.

His fingers were still in his pocket, his fingertips rubbing back and forth against the dragon glass shards, as if sharpening a blade-less sword.