80: Chapter 78 Margaery Tyrell

Dull golden light surged into his body along his arms, like two golden snakes crawling up.

The scales he had suppressed in his fully human form instantly broke through that suppression under the impact of this energy. From his neck to his forearms, dense, dull golden scales broke through his skin one after another—crack, crack, the sound of the scales flipping out from under his skin was like cracking ice.

The edges of the scales shimmered with an icy blue glow, appearing even more eerie under the green light of the wildfire jars. His pupils abruptly shifted from deep brown round pupils to blazing golden slit pupils, with a wisp of ghostly blue Ice Fire dancing in the center—not a reflection, but burning on its own.

A tail burst through his clothes at the tailbone, whipping a golden arc through the air and slapping against the stone chamber wall with a crack, causing a jar of wildfire to hum from the vibration.

System prompt. White background with gold text.

"Absorbed a Dragon Crystal core fragment of an unnamed Dragon King. Bloodline increased by 300. Current bloodline: 1,650 → 1,950.

Passive skill 'Dragon Heritage Perception' range expanded by 50%—the entirety of Westeros and the west coast of Essos have entered the perception range.

Passive skill 'Dragon Might' suppression threshold in fully human form lowered—can release approximately 10% of pressure without exposing dragon features, causing psychological oppression to humanoid enemies without triggering dragon identification.

New passive skill 'Blood Oath Perception' unlocked: Can perceive items or ruins related to dragon blood oaths."

Drogon looked down at his hands, now covered in scales again. The scales were thicker than before—each one engraved with dull golden patterns from edge to root.

When he turned his wrists, he could see the dull golden veins beneath the scales glowing faintly, as if the liquid flowing in his veins wasn't blood, but liquid gold. His tail whipped excitedly twice behind him, sweeping away a layer of dust in the corner.

"System. Is the fully human form—"

"Has been broken. Bloodline has jumped to 1,950 points, exceeding the suppression limit of the fully human form—the original limit was 1,800 points. Current form: Dragon-man form. Scales/tail/slit pupils have been restored. Remaining concealment time: Zero.

Recommendation: Relic recovered, wildfire locations marked—a total of 56 jars in the stone chamber and surrounding areas. You should immediately retreat along the original path to Flea Bottom, change clothes, and leave King's Landing before dawn."

"Received."

He tightened the straps on his dragon-kiss sword. The blade pressed against his back, and through the coarse cloth, he could feel the chill of the blade—not the chill of metal, but a deeper cold, carrying the remnants of a blood oath. Just as he was about to leave the stone chamber, he suddenly heard very faint footsteps coming from the direction of the Dragonpit. Not just one person—the footsteps were very light, treading on gravel, but the gravel slipped, making an extremely subtle friction sound.

Torchlight faintly filtered down from the dome entrance of the Dragonpit. It wasn't a torch—it was an oil lamp. The light was smaller than a torch, but more stable. Someone had entered the abandoned Dragonpit in the dead of night.

Drogon extinguished the faint glow of the dragon crystal in the stone chamber. He flashed behind the stone door, looking toward the Dragonpit through a crack in the door.

A figure wearing a dark green cloak stood alone amidst a pile of dragon bones. She held an oil lamp in her hand. The light range was very small, illuminating only a few feet beneath her feet—just enough to see the tips of her boots and the scattered dragon bone fragments.

Her hood slipped back, revealing brown curls and the face he had just seen earlier that day. Margaery Tyrell.

She looked around at the dragon bones and the stone wall reliefs. The oil lamp swayed slightly in her hand, the circle of light sweeping across the dragon bones. Her breath condensed into white mist in the cold air—the temperature in the Dragonpit was several degrees lower than the surface.

She was talking to herself, her voice very soft, carrying a kind of curiosity and calmness not displayed in front of Joffrey.

"Grandmother said there used to be a Targaryen dragon pit beneath the Red Keep. I didn't expect it to actually exist. These dragon bones—if House Tyrell could have a dragon, even just one. The Lannister lions would be nothing more than pets before us."

Drogon remained motionless behind the door. His slit pupils stared at her every move through the crack. She took two steps toward the stone chamber. The light of the oil lamp swept across the ground, illuminating the fresh footprints he had made earlier—toes pointing in, heels pointing out, the edges of the footprints still very clear. Her footsteps stopped. Her deep brown eyes narrowed, staring at the footprints. Then she looked up toward the direction of the stone chamber.

Her voice remained soft, but with an added layer of alertness—that layer of alertness lowered her tone by a semitone.

"Someone is inside. Come out. This is Margaery of House Tyrell speaking."

Drogon calculated his options in his mind.

Continue hiding—she might call the Gold Cloaks. If the Gold Cloaks came down and saw a room full of wildfire jars and dragon bones, even if he could fight his way out, the relic recovery mission would be over.

Come out and deal with it as a merchant—but in his current dragon-man form, he couldn't possibly disguise himself as a human merchant. His arms were covered in scales, his tail was whipping behind him, and his slit pupils were glowing faintly in the dark.

"System. How un-human do I look right now?"

"Scales cover arms and neck. Slit pupils glow spontaneously in the dark—brightness equivalent to half an oil lamp. Tail activity level is too high, current whipping frequency is 12 times per minute. Human recognition: approximately 30%."

"That's enough. Just say I'm a secret envoy from Dragonstone. Anyway, Dragonstone has already been taken by us—Westeros will know sooner or later."

He pushed open the stone door and walked out of the stone chamber.

The light of the oil lamp fell upon him. His forearms were covered in dull golden scales—the scales were neatly arranged, with icy blue thin lines inlaid along the edges. His slit pupils burned with golden flames—with a speck of ghostly blue dancing in the center of the pupil.

Behind him was that rugged, bony dragon tail—the ice cone at the tip of the tail shimmered with cold light under the oil lamp. On his back was a dark silver valyrian steel sword, with the dragon-shaped carving on the hilt peeking out from a gap in the coarse cloth.

The oil lamp in Margaery's hand swayed slightly, but did not fall.

Her deep brown eyes widened abruptly, her lips slightly parted—but she did not scream. She closed her mouth again. It took her less than three seconds to regain control of her expression. From shock to calmness. Her fingers tightened slightly on the oil lamp handle, her knuckles turning white.

Her voice remained steady, but a few degrees lower than before.

"You were in the square during the day. You are that Meereen merchant."

"Good observation skills, Miss Tyrell. Exploring beneath the Red Keep alone in the dead of night—aren't you afraid Joffrey will discover his fiancée wandering around in the Dragonpit?"

"Joffrey is afraid of the Dragonpit. He says there are ghosts here. The ghosts of the Targaryen children killed by his father. That's why he never comes."

She paused. Her gaze swept over the tail behind him—from the root to the tip, the position of every bone spur—and then landed on his slit pupils.

The light of the oil lamp reflected two tiny flames in her deep brown irises, the flames swaying gently, but her gaze did not waver. Her lips moved. Then, a very faint smile, mixed with curiosity and calculation, appeared on her face.

"—You are not a ghost. You are a dragon. Daenerys Targaryen's dragon. Grandmother's raven returned from The Citadel three days ago—saying Dragonstone had been retaken by the Targaryens. Saying that the black dragon of the Targaryens can turn into a human. I originally thought that was the old scholars of The Citadel having taken too much milk of the poppy. Now it seems—they are quite sober."

Drogon's tail slowly drew a circle behind him.

He formed a new assessment of this woman. She didn't just have a good political nose—her intelligence network was not weak either. Her grandmother, Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns, was the true brain of House Tyrell.

She already knew and remembered the intelligence from three days ago. And coming to the Dragonpit alone in the dead of night—it wasn't a coincidence, it wasn't an adventure; she was verifying the intelligence. She was preparing for her next move.

"Since you know who I am—what do you plan to do next? Go out and call the Gold Cloaks? Tell your fiancé?"

Margaery placed the oil lamp on a broken stone pillar. She turned around to face him. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her posture elegant and composed. The light shone on her face from below, making her cheekbones and chin look more defined.

"No. I won't call anyone. Because if you wanted to kill me—I would already be dead. Since you haven't made a move, it means I have value to you."

Drogon's slit pupils narrowed slightly. "What value?"

"House Tyrell controls the granary of Westeros. Seventy percent of the food in King's Landing comes from Highgarden—not fifty, but seventy percent. Cersei needs our food to feed her army. If House Tyrell turns to the Targaryens—the Lannister army won't last a month under siege. A month later, they will be eating rats."

"Conditions."

Margaery took a step closer. The oil lamp cast a long, slender shadow at her side, the shadow falling onto the dragon bone fragments, making her look taller and thinner. Her smile remained gentle, but her words struck straight to the point—every word sounded rehearsed, but the object of her rehearsal wasn't him, it was her grandmother.

"I have been married twice. Once to a homosexual—he loved my brother. Once to a sadist—he liked to watch people scream. The iron throne needs a true king—your mother, Daenerys Targaryen. House Tyrell can help her. There is only one condition—after the new dynasty is established, Highgarden remains Highgarden. Tyrell remains Warden of the South."

She paused for a moment. Her deep brown eyes looked straight into his slit pupils. Her right index finger gently drew a circle on the folds of her dress—it was an unconscious movement, but Drogon saw it.

"—I don't want to be treated as a marriage tool anymore. Let me have a seat on the Small Council. Or—let me marry a spouse who won't die before me. Does your family have a suitable candidate?"

Drogon's tail stiffened abruptly behind him for a moment.

He scrutinized her eyes. She wasn't flirting—people who flirt blink, she didn't. She was negotiating. But the chips in the negotiation included "herself." This was the only weapon she had learned in countless forced marriages, and it was her only weapon. She used the weapon to trade for survival, and survival to trade for the rose garden.

"My family has dragons. Dragons don't just marry humans. But if what you just said is the truth—I will take your proposal back to Dragonstone. It will be decided by Daenerys."

Margaery nodded. She reached up and unclasped a tiny gold rose brooch from her neck.

It wasn't the rose badge of House Tyrell—that one was larger, more ornate, and inlaid with rubies. This one was smaller, simpler, with only three carvings on the petals. Her own rose. She placed it in his hand.

Her fingers brushed lightly against his palm, her nails trimmed very short, her fingertips warm.

"This is my personal token. Not House Tyrell's—it's my own. Bring it back, and I will know you are not a person who breaks their word."

She withdrew her hand. She picked up the oil lamp again. Her voice returned to being light—the kind of lightness she used in front of Joffrey, but this time there was a hint of relief she couldn't hide.

"Now—what do you need me to help you with? For example—leaving the city."

Drogon flipped the gold rose brooch over in his palm. The rose petals were carved in great detail, with the curvature of each petal being different. On the back were two tiny characters—M.T.. Margaery Tyrell. The handwriting was very fine, but steady; it wasn't carved by a craftsman, but by herself.

"You can help me leave the city?"

"Tomorrow morning, a batch of Tyrell grain wagons will return to Highgarden. The Gold Cloaks don't inspect Tyrell grain wagons—they are afraid of offending my grandmother. You can disguise yourself as my carriage driver. Before dawn, change into the clothes I will have someone bring—no one will take a second look at a carriage driver."

She paused. Her deep brown eyes swept over the dragon-kiss sword on his back—the blade was wrapped in coarse cloth, the dragon-shaped carving on the hilt peeking out from a gap in the cloth, a flash of dark silver light. Then her gaze shifted back to his slit pupils, stopping in those eyes burning with dull golden flames.

"In exchange—on the day your mother retakes King's Landing. Do not burn the rose garden of Highgarden."