81: Chapter 79 The Deal

Then he looked up at her face, which seemed more real under the oil lamp than it had during the day.

Her eyelashes cast fine shadows under the lamplight, falling upon her cheekbones.

Her cheekbones were a bit high—not with the rounded fullness of wealth, but with the sharpness of shrewdness.

She was not a rose.

Roses have thorns, but they bloom in the sunlight for all to see.

She was a night-blooming jasmine.

She bloomed in the darkness, traded in the darkness, and used her fragrance to barter for survival.

"Deal. Tomorrow at dawn, I will disguise myself as your carriage driver and leave the city. As for the rose garden of Highgarden—I promise, not a single petal will be burned."

Margaery smiled.

It was not the sweet smile she had shown the commoners in the square earlier.

It was lighter, more like a sigh of relief—the corners of her mouth lifted only slightly, and her eyes crinkled.

"That is good. Grandmother's roses have been cultivated for three generations. If she knew I had made a deal with a dragon, she might leave me a few more acres of land. Or she might call me crazy—and then praise me for having a reasonable kind of madness."

She turned and walked toward the exit of the Dragonpit.

After a few steps, she stopped again.

She did not turn back.

The light of the oil lamp flickered beside her.

"By the way—when you were looking at me in the square, I thought you were just another man with designs on me. I didn't expect you really did have designs. It's just that your designs aren't that kind of designs."

Drogon's tail flicked gently behind him.

"...What kind of designs?"

"The kind—the desire to snatch me away from Joffrey. You want to snatch the iron throne out of his hands. And treat me as a trophy along the way. I'm not wrong, am I?"

She didn't wait for his answer.

She lifted the oil lamp and walked up the stone steps.

Her footsteps faded away.

Drogon stood among the pile of dragon bones.

The golden rose brooch reflected light slightly in his palm; the three carvings on the petals glimmered with a faint golden light in the darkness.

He found himself smiling—not his usual rogueish smirk, not the smugness of a successful bargain, but a smile of being seen through, tinged with a hint of appreciation.

"...Seen through by a human woman. How embarrassing."

"Margaery Tyrell's political intelligence ranks in the top five among women in Westeros. Host, there is no need to blame yourself. However, the system must remind you—her interest in the host has risen to thirty-five percent during the conversation just now. About half of that is political interest, and the other half is—"

"I'll hear the other half later. For now, let's get out of the city."

He tucked the golden rose brooch into his inner pocket.

He tightened the dragon-kiss sword—crossing it with the fake valyrian steel sword, one real and one fake, and strapped them to his back.

Then, he walked along the stone steps in the direction Margaery had left.

His tail flicked behind him.

Not because of excitement.

It was because he found himself thinking about her last sentence.

"A trophy. She thinks I treat her as a trophy."

He stepped onto the stairs.

His footsteps echoed in the secret passage.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"She wasn't wrong."

The system did not reply.

Dragonstone.

Nightfire Altar.

At the same moment.

Late at night.

Melisandre stood alone before the Nightfire Altar.

Her arms were spread wide.

Her red robes fluttered slowly in the night wind, the hem illuminated by the firelight into a dark red—deeper than yesterday, and blue-green tongues of fire licked the night sky, the flames more active than usual.

Her red eyes gazed at the flickering visions in the flames—frame by frame, as if someone were playing a slide show in the fire.

In the flames, a man covered in dark gold scales was confronting a brown-haired woman in a domed underground chamber filled with dragon bones.

His tail flicked behind him, and the ice spike at the tip of his tail reflected the light of the oil lamp.

She placed a golden brooch into his hand.

The image was so clear that Melisandre could see the patterns of the petals on the brooch—three petals, each with a different curvature.

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

She whispered in the valyrian language.

"A girl of House Tyrell. A clever girl. She knows that the true dragon is unstoppable. She chose to offer a covenant in the dead of night—this is her political intuition, and it is also her fate. The flames say that her rose garden has no poisonous thorns, at least not for him."

She reached her hand into the flames.

The flames wrapped around her fingertips—not burning, but wrapping, as if shaking her hand.

She transmitted the latest images of Drogon in King's Landing to the blood bond mark on Daenerys's chest: blurred but recognizable outlines.

The Dragonpit.

Dragon bones.

A brown-haired woman.

A golden rose.

A covenant.

And the clear consciousness of having reached an agreement with the brown-haired woman.

Daenerys woke up in her bedchamber.

The mark on her chest was slightly warm—not burning, but warm, a warmth that carried information.

She sat up.

Her violet eyes gazed in the direction of King's Landing.

She was silent for a moment.

Then she said softly.

"Tyrell. He has secured an ally for me in King's Landing. The other party is a rose."

She raised her left hand.

The purple flame stone ring on her thumb cast a faint glow in the darkness.

She gently rubbed the face of the ring with her thumb.

"A woman of House Tyrell. Married twice. He says her eyes are not roses—they are night-blooming jasmine."

Illyse White Mane was in the next room.

The Brand on the back of her neck heated up at the same time—not burning, but a warm pulse that carried information.

She turned over on her cot, pressed the pillow against her face, and muttered muffledly.

"Another one."

Then she reached out and touched the back of her neck.

The temperature of the Brand was not too hot—just warm, much lighter than the burning sensation when Drogon absorbed relics in King's Landing.

She took the pillow off her face and stared at the texture of the obsidian on the ceiling.

She closed her eyes.

"...Tyrell. Rose. Listen to see if his heartbeat sped up."

The heartbeat frequency transmitted back by the Brand was steady.

Just like usual—about fifty beats per minute, the resting heart rate of a dragon.

No acceleration.

"It didn't speed up. Then he's negotiating. Not—"

She didn't finish.

She pulled the quilt up and covered her head.

A muffled, indistinct murmur came from under the quilt—probably some curse in the dothraki language.

Melisandre was still standing before the Nightfire Altar.

She saw the faint emotional fluctuation transmitted by Illyse White Mane's Brand—not anger, not jealousy, but something more complex, something that even Illyse White Mane herself might not be able to accurately name.

Like a horse used to being alone on the grasslands that suddenly discovers several strange horses in the stable.

She withdrew her hand from the flames.

The firelight in her red eyes slowly subsided.

"Three. And another one in Meereen. The scale of the dragon nest is not small in the history of Old Valyria.

But the Dragon King himself seems not to have realized it yet—he is expanding his kin in a way he hasn't even noticed himself."

She paused.

She looked down at her fingertips.

The faint golden luster on her fingertips was what he had left behind—from 0.3 percent to 1.2 percent, now stable at 1.2 percent, like a small drop of gold melted into her blood.

"Including me."

King's Landing.

Dragon Gate.

Dawn.

The first light of morning appeared.

The Gold Cloaks at the city gate were still yawning—mouths open wide enough to fit an egg.

The night watch had just finished changing shifts, and the new guards, hit by the morning breeze, shrank their necks and stomped their feet, their iron boots clattering on the stone floor.

A grain transport convoy from House Tyrell was parked inside the city gate, waiting for inspection.

Six ox carts, loaded with empty grain bags—having unloaded the grain from Highgarden, they were now returning empty.

The grain bags were stacked very neatly, but the mouths were all open, waiting to be filled with new grain.

Drogon sat at the tail of the last ox cart.

He was wearing a coarse cloth driver's tunic, the cuffs worn white, with patches on the elbows.

He wore a tattered straw hat, the brim pulled very low to cover his eyes.

He wore coarse leather gloves on his hands—to cover his scales.

The dragon-kiss sword was wrapped in a tattered blanket, stuffed at the very bottom of the pile of grain bags, topped with two bags of horse oats.

The fake valyrian steel sword was stuffed in another cart.

His tail had been temporarily retracted into his fully human form—after absorbing the relics last night, the system had urgently repaired the suppression limit of the fully human form, and now it could last for another forty-eight hours.

The Gold Cloak guard yawned and flipped through the grain bags casually.

He reached into a grain bag, grabbed a handful of oats, and let go.

The oat grains slipped through his fingers and fell onto the grain bags.

"Go on, go on. It's a Tyrell cart, no need to check too carefully."

The convoy drove out of the Dragon Gate.

The ox hooves clattered on the stone road, and the wheels creaked.

One ox defecated as it walked, and the driver cursed.

Drogon sat at the tail of the cart.

Beneath the brim of his hat, his deep brown round pupils watched the Red Keep fading into the distance.

The pale red walls seemed softer in the morning light than yesterday—less like congealed blood, and more like a red brick faded by time.

But he remembered the number of ballistae on the walls.

Twelve.

He remembered the shift interval of the Gold Cloaks.

Forty minutes.

He remembered the look in the eyes of the commoners at the city gate when they looked at Joffrey—not hatred, but fear.

Fear is harder to break down than hatred.

Hatred can be incited; fear only makes people bow their heads.

In his arms, the last fragment of the dragon glass core remnant had been completely absorbed.

Only the golden rose brooch and a small jar of valyrian black salt remained.

He squeezed the pottery jar of black salt; the jar was still sealed with wax, very tightly.

He decided to open it after returning.

To mix with roasted meat.

Paired with figs from Dragonstone.

"Relic recovery mission · King's Landing part: Completed—Dragon glass core fragment absorbed / dragon-kiss sword recovered / wildfire coordinates marked.

Current bloodline: 1,950.

Only 50 points away from 2,000.

Fully human form remaining time: Restored to 48 hours.

It is recommended to return to Dragonstone immediately.

It is recommended to precisely detonate the wildfire coordinates in dragon form before the siege—diving from the air and throwing dragon glass fragments can avoid the risk of premature detonation by wildfire steam."

"Returning.

Bringing three things back—Visenya's sword, the Tyrell covenant, and all the coordinates of the wildfire in King's Landing.

Mother will like this souvenir.

Illyse White Mane will like this sword.

Melisandre—will probably replay every sentence of my conversation with Margaery in the Dragonpit in the flames, making a prophecy memo.

By the way, that jar of black salt—I need to share a pinch with Missandei when I get back.

I owe her new data.

Her notebook chapter nine should be almost finished."

The ox cart slowly drove toward the Blackwater River ferry.

Behind him, the outline of King's Landing faded further into the morning mist.

The towers of the Red Keep finally sank into the mist—first the spires blurred, then the towers were swallowed by the mist, and finally, only a very faint red shadow remained.

In the direction of Dragonstone, the sea breeze blew in from the Narrow Sea.

Salty.

Cool.

Ten thousand times cleaner than the air in King's Landing.

Drogon took off his straw hat.

He let the sea breeze hit his face directly.

The skin in his fully human form was much more sensitive than in his dragon form—he could feel the texture of every wisp of wind, the wind contained water vapor, salt grains, and the fishy smell of distant seaweed.

He pulled the golden rose brooch out of his inner pocket.

He flipped it over in the morning light.

M.T..

The characters engraved on the back were extremely fine, each stroke carrying the refinement of House Tyrell—not the refinement of a craftsman, but her own refinement.

When she engraved it, she must have been sitting under a lamp, head bowed, brown hair hanging by her face, fingers gripping the engraving knife, stroke by stroke, very slowly.

"Margaery Tyrell.

She said she didn't want to be treated as a tool for marriage anymore.

That sentence was true."

"Host's basis for judgment."

"When she said that sentence—she didn't blink.

She kept blinking when she was negotiating earlier.

When she said Highgarden is still Highgarden, she blinked once.

When she mentioned Warden of the South, she blinked twice.

When she said she didn't want to be a tool for marriage—she didn't blink."

"Micro-expression analysis with the assistance of Dragon Perception has an accuracy rate of about 72 percent.

The system cannot confirm the remaining 28 percent.

But the host's logical judgment is sound.

It is recommended to evaluate Margaery Tyrell's loyalty as 'cautiously optimistic'—re-evaluate after her grandmother Olenna Rayder intervenes."

"Not relying on the system.

Relying on my own eyes."

He tucked the brooch back into his inner pocket.

He put the straw hat back on his head.

The brim was pulled very low, covering the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.

The ox cart drove past the ferry crossing.

The ferry was a flat-bottomed barge, pulled across the Blackwater River by a cable—the cable was pulled taut, and water dripped from it.

The ferryman was a silent old man who took two copper coins without saying a word, just nodding.

After reaching the opposite bank, the convoy headed south along the Rose Road.

Drogon jumped off the ox cart at a fork in the road and waved at the leader of the convoy.

The leader was an old driver from House Tyrell, whom Margaery had instructed beforehand—ask nothing.

He walked north along the coastline.

The ferry to Dragonstone was waiting for him on the east coast, about half a day's journey away.

The morning light cast a long shadow before him.