82: Chapter 82 Return to Port

The morning light on Dragonstone plated the black beach in dark gold. The mist had not yet dispersed over the sea, and a grain transport ship flying the green and gold flag of House Tyrell slowly pulled into the harbor.

The ship sat low in the water, its hull stained with salt spray from the Narrow Sea. As the gangplank lowered, a young man wearing a coarse carter's tunic stepped down. A tattered straw hat was pulled low, and he carried simple luggage in his hands.

His pace was lighter than it had been when he left three days ago, his footsteps crunching on the black sand, each step sinking less deeply than a normal person's.

He stepped onto the beach and removed his straw hat. Beneath a mess of hair, his deep brown round pupils transformed into dark gold slit pupils the moment the hat was removed.

The slit pupils contracted slightly in the morning light, a wisp of faint blue Ice Fire flickering in the center. He had deactivated his full human form on his own as the ship entered the waters of Dragonstone—when the Dothraki sailors on board saw his tail extend from the hem of his robe, two of them had traced the sign of the dragon claw on their chests.

His tail flicked happily twice behind him. The hem of the carter's tunic snapped with the motion. He took a deep breath of the volcanic sulfur scent of Dragonstone. For a dragon, sulfur smelled a hundred times better than the stinking fish of King's Landing.

"Three days. Finally, I can flick my tail. Holding back from flicking my tail in King's Landing was harder than holding back from killing Joffrey."

System popup.

"Full human form deactivated. Dragon-man form restored. Current bloodline level 1,950, all attribute conversion rates restored to 80 percent. Welcome back, host. Black Salt is still in your embrace, the dragon-kiss sword is strapped to your back, and the Golden Rose brooch is in your inner pocket—none of the three items have been lost."

At the end of the harbor jetty, three figures gradually became clear in the morning mist.

Daenerys stood at the very front.

Her silver-gold hair was slightly disheveled by the sea breeze, a few strands clinging to her cheeks. She wore black scale armor, and the valyrian steel dagger he had given her hung at her waist.

Her purple eyes were fixed on his direction—not scanning, but locking on—ever since the moment his tail had appeared at the ship's rail. The purple-flame stone ring on her left thumb glimmered with a ghostly purple light in the morning sun.

Two steps behind her, White Mane leaned against the jetty railing.

Her great blade had changed positions—previously carried on her right shoulder, it was now strapped to her back, secured with newly braided leather straps. Her amber eyes swept over him lazily, then landed on the tip of the tail peeking out from the hem of his robe.

The corners of her mouth moved. She didn't speak, but the Brand on the back of her neck grew slightly warm—she could feel him approaching.

Further away, in the direction of the Nightfire Altar, Melisandre's red robes fluttered in the sea breeze. She hadn't come to the jetty, but her red eyes were watching him from within the flames—he could feel that faint resonance of dragon blood pulsing, even across the distance of half an island.

"They're all here. Not one missing. The little translator is in Meereen, not here, but definitely waiting for a raven. System—do they look like they're here to welcome me, or to judge me?"

"Daenerys's heart rate is 12 percent higher than her resting rate. The Brand on White Mane's neck has risen slightly in temperature. Melisandre's fingers are playing with a dragonglass pendant inside her sleeve—comprehensive assessment: 65 percent chance they are here to welcome you, 35 percent chance they are here to judge you."

"Sixty-five. That's enough."

Drogon walked up to Daenerys. She was a head shorter than him.

The morning light struck from behind her, plating her silver hair in gold-white, the edges of the strands like molten silver. She didn't speak. She simply reached out and touched the silver mate mark on his chest with her fingertips.

The mark, which had been hidden for three days under his full human form, was now glowing faintly through his tunic, silver light leaking from the edges of her fingertips.

Through the blood bond resonance, she didn't need to ask any questions.

She perceived the ecstasy of the relic—the sensation of the dragonglass core pulsing in his palm, like a miniature sun.

The satisfaction of Black Salt—the heartbeat acceleration when he negotiated the price down for half a pound of Black Salt mixed with dragonglass powder, the rhythm identical to her own when she negotiated at the bargaining table.

The killing intent toward Joffrey—that pale, thin neck had been snapped three times in his slit pupils. And the entire process of his assessment shifting from "political threat" to "potential ally" while confronting the brown-haired woman in the ruins of the Dragonpit—it shifted so quickly, so fast that the corners of her lips had curled up when she sensed it.

She withdrew her hand. Her voice was calm, but the end of her tone rose slightly.

"Black Salt. You almost revealed your slit pupils in front of the Gold Cloaks for half a pound of Black Salt. Then you bought a fake sword from the black market and accepted a brooch from the young lady of House Tyrell. And you came back wearing a carter's clothes."

Drogon's tail stiffened for a moment behind him.

"Can the blood bond transmit details now?"

"It can't. But Melisandre's Nightfire can. She stood before the fire last night and gave a real-time account of you squatting in the black market haggling with the vendor, including the part where you took the fake sword—she said your expression looked like you were lecturing a fraud. You held back your tail for three days, but she didn't hold back her mouth."

She paused. Then she did something that made White Mane raise an eyebrow against the jetty railing—she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck.

The black scale armor was cold, pressing against his chest, the edges of each scale plate digging into his own scales. Her fingers gently stroked the scales on the back of her neck.

That patch of scales was slightly thinner than the others—it was new growth from when he had been pierced by an ice spear on the walls of Meereen, the edges still tipped with translucent keratin. Every time she touched this spot, the blood bond resonance sent a faint sting. It wasn't his pain. It was her own.

She lowered her voice into his ear.

"Welcome back. The matter with Tyrell—you did well."

She let go. She stepped back. She resumed her queenly stance—back straight, chin slightly tucked, the tenderness in her purple eyes quickly folded back into calmness. The purple-flame stone ring on her thumb flashed in the morning light.

Drogon untied the long, cloth-wrapped object from his back. The coarse cloth had been soaked by the sea breeze, salt frost clinging to the edges, grains of salt falling off as he shook it. He handed it to White Mane.

White Mane took it. She unfolded the coarse cloth. A dark silver valyrian steel sword lay in the morning light. The hilt was formed of intertwined twin dragons—the dragon mouths biting the base of the blade, the dragon tails coiled into the anti-slip texture of the grip, every single tail scale carved with startling clarity.

The blade was slender, nearly half as light as her arakh. The edge shimmered in the morning light with the dark, unique ripples of valyrian steel—like an oil film floating on water, layer upon layer, endless.

There was no rust on the blade, no dust. Sealed in the Dragonpit two hundred years ago, it was still new two hundred years later.

"Visenya Targaryen's sword. It's called dragon-kiss. It was sealed in the dragon pit under the Red Keep for nearly two hundred years. It's for you."

White Mane grasped the hilt. Her five fingers locked into the texture of the dragon tails coiled around the grip, the webbing of her thumb perfectly catching on the scale carvings at the end of the dragon tails.

She drew the blade completely from the coarse cloth and swung it twice. The first was a direct slash—the blade sliced through the air almost silently, with only a faint, extremely light hum.

The second was a horizontal cut—the tip of the sword drew a thin silver line in the morning light, as if slicing a gash in the air. Her amber eyes stared at her own face reflected in the blade, and she was silent for several seconds.

In the reflection, she was examining the sword, lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed—that was her standard expression when evaluating a weapon.

"The reason for giving it to me."

"Your arakh chipped in three places when you were hacking at the city gates under Meereen. Dothraki steel can't fill the gap of Valyrian. This sword is lighter than your arakh, suitable for mounted combat. Besides—Visenya was the best fighter of the three sister conquerors. So are you."

White Mane sheathed the dragon-kiss sword into her belt.

Her spare snake-shaped dagger had been hanging there, but now the dagger had been moved to the side of her leg, secured with leather straps.

The belt was old Dothraki leather, not matching the valyrian steel scabbard—the blade sat a bit loosely, the scabbard mouth wider than the blade by a finger's breadth. She pressed the hilt with her hand, adjusting the angle, pressing it diagonally against her waist.

Her voice was flat. But the emotion transmitted by the Brand was warm—not hot, but warm, like a stone that had been baked in the sun.

"Accepted. But the sword doesn't mean I owe you more. The Brand is the Brand, the sword is the sword. They are accounted for separately."

Drogon's tail flicked behind him. The corners of his mouth curled slightly.

"Fine. The sword is the sword. Don't use it for experiments when you're sharpening it tonight—valyrian steel doesn't need sharpening."

"I know."

White Mane turned and walked away. Her silver-white braid swung in the morning breeze, the braid dusted with the black sand of Dragonstone.

After a few steps, she stopped. Without looking back, she added a sentence, her voice lower than usual, betrayed only by the emotion transmitted through the Brand—in that emotion was a faint 10 percent of an indefinable vigilance that she would never speak aloud.

"That Tyrell woman you met in King's Landing. Her political nose is sharper than a Dothraki scout. If she wants to join—tell me in advance. I don't want to sense a fourth one through the Brand."

Drogon's tail stiffened for a moment. He wanted to reply with something, but White Mane had already walked far away.

Her silhouette was drawn long in the morning light, the hilt of the dragon-kiss sword protruding from behind her shoulder, the intertwined dragon-shaped hilt gleaming with a cold dark silver light in the sun. The split in the scabbard extended from the mouth to the tip, crudely stitched with leather thread—she had stitched it herself last night.