84: Chapter 84 Five-Man Enforcement Team

Melisandre stood up. Her red robes made almost no sound in the cold air of the council chamber, save for a faint friction as the hem trailed across the flagstones—like snake scales sliding over stone.

She walked to the nightfire brazier in the center of the chamber—it had been specially moved from the altar so she could display her flame prophecies during meetings.

Blue-green verdigris had already burned onto the edges of the bronze basin, the oxidation spreading down the rim like frozen flames.

She reached her hands into the fire and closed her red eyes. Blue-green tongues of flame licked her fingers, dancing above her palms for a few moments before suddenly surging upward—high enough to nearly lick the obsidian beams on the ceiling. A faint vision emerged within the flames.

Five dragon shadows were flying through the starry sky.

The lead shadow was the largest, with an estimated wingspan of about forty meters. Its body was a silver that seemed to warp time and space—not simple silver scales, but every scale reflecting light from different moments simultaneously.

Where it passed, starlight was stretched into long, thin silver lines before slowly recovering, like ripples on water being played back ten thousand times slower. Three slightly smaller dragon shadows followed behind it, with wingspans of about twenty to twenty-five meters, colored dark red, deep blue, and bronze respectively. The three dragons flew in a wedge formation, their wingtips nearly touching.

At the very rear followed a figure that was not a dragon—humanoid, but with wings extending from its back made of pure starlight. There were no membranes, no bones, just a winged silhouette composed of countless tiny points of light.

Every beat of its wings released a wisp of stardust, which drifted into the vacuum and turned into extremely fine silver-white powder.

Melisandre's voice was low and clear, every word sounding as if it had been plucked from the flames—carrying the heat of fire, but with a cold tone.

“One adult pure-blood Chronos Dragon—the captain. Three Dragonborn Knights—belonging to the fire, ice, and bronze dragon lineages respectively. The fire dragon's scales are dark red like embers, the ice dragon's scales are deep blue like cold iron, and the bronze dragon's scales are rusty green like ancient bronze.”

“And one Dragon-born Apostle—a hybrid of dragon and human, who does not ride a dragon but flies using the power of starlight. Five in total. Arrival time—four weeks. They will arrive in the skies over Dragonstone before the Night King's army marches south.”

Jorah frowned. He tapped his finger on the table once, a short and dull sound. His gray eyes stared at the starlight-winged figure in the flame vision.

“Dragon-born Apostle? What is that—can dragons and humans actually produce such a thing?”

In Drogon's consciousness space, the system simultaneously popped up a window. The white pop-up was exceptionally striking against the dark gold consciousness space.

“Dragon-born Apostle—Direct agents of the Dragon Senate. Selected from the hybrid descendants of dragons and humans, they receive special training from The Senate. They can utilize partial dragon abilities but are not subject to dragon bloodline suppression.”

“They usually serve as observers and negotiators for the Enforcement Squad. Combat Assessment: Approximately equivalent to 1,500 to 2,000 dragon bloodline points, but they possess specialized magic equipment designed for dragons.”

“Including but not limited to: Bloodline Chains—can temporarily seal 30% of a target dragon's bloodline; Chronos Anchor—can prevent the target from performing spatial leaps; Dragon Awe Shielding Talisman—can negate dragon pressure within a twenty-meter radius.”

“Five people. The captain is a pure-blood Chronos Dragon, combat power 2,000 to 3,000—capable of manipulating the flow of time, likely slowing my movements by a third of a beat. Three Dragonborn Knight members, combat power 1,000 to 1,500.”

“Plus an Apostle—equipped with specialized anti-dragon gear. The Bloodline Chains are a problem. They arrive in four weeks.”

Daenerys's fingertips tapped lightly on the tabletop. The rhythm was faster than usual—three taps a second, twice as fast as her resting heart rate. Her purple eyes moved from the flame vision to Drogon, her pupils reflecting the blue-green afterglow of the fire.

“Four weeks—which is also the likely time the Night King's army will move south. If the Enforcement Squad and the Night King arrive simultaneously, we will face a two-front war. The Chronos Dragon to the east, and the wights to the north. If either side holds us for more than a day, the other will reach the castle's outer walls.”

Barristan stroked his beard. His voice was old but steady, like a stone worn smooth by a lifetime in a river.

“Your Majesty, Dragonstone has eight thousand Unsullied, two thousand Dothraki Cavalry, and three dragons—one of which is Primal Dragon class.”

“Defending Dragonstone against a five-person Enforcement Squad should be more than enough. But if the Night King moves south at the same time—we must ensure the North can stall the White Walkers long enough for us to deal with the Enforcement Squad before heading north.”

“If the North holds for a month, we can win. If the North can't hold, we'll have to choose between saving Dragonstone or King's Landing first.”

“Is there any news from the North?”

Jorah pulled an opened raven scroll from under a pile of parchment. The edges of the paper were soaked with sea air and a bit damp, but the handwriting was clear.

“Brandon Stark is now being called the Young Wolf and is summoning Northern vassals to prepare for the White Walkers' southward advance. He has gathered about twelve thousand men at Winterfell, but most are infantry, with fewer than two thousand cavalry.”

“His sister, Sansa Stark, is at The Eyrie and is in raven correspondence with him. It is said Sansa is lobbying the Lords of the Vale to send troops to support the North. I suggest Your Majesty send a formal diplomatic letter to the North—in the capacity of the Mother of Dragons, rather than a Targaryen princess.”

“Write it. Tell the North—the ownership of the iron throne can be discussed after the war, but the threat of the White Walkers allows for no internal strife. I bring three dragons and the Unsullied legion, and I am willing to go north to assist. The condition is—a temporary non-aggression pact between the North and me. Tell the Young Wolf I am not my father.”

Jorah nodded and took shorthand notes on the parchment. The quill scratched across the paper, ink splattering onto the edges.

Afternoon. The training grounds on the castle's lower level.

The volcanic rock platform of Dragonstone had been converted into a temporary training ground. Several shallow grooves had been worn into the obsidian floor by Dothraki horseshoes, filled with black volcanic ash.

Dozens of Dothraki Cavalry surrounded the area in a large circle, squatting on the low walls of the platform. Some chewed on stalks of grass, while others leaned their elbows on their knees, their iron bracers clanging against the stone.

They were heckling loudly in the dothraki language, likely betting on how many moves it would take for their commander to slice through all the spear shafts. The odds were already at three to one—the majority betting she would do it in two moves.

White Mane stood in the center of the circle, holding the dragon-kiss sword. She wasn't using her giant blade. Three Unsullied veterans surrounded her in a triangle, their spear tips glinting coldly in the sunlight. Their breathing was steady, their footwork steady—the steadiness of the Unsullied, a castrated steadiness.

The first veteran was the first to strike. A straight thrust, a standard Unsullied lunge—precise in angle and steady in power, aimed at her left shoulder. This thrust had been practiced ten thousand times.

White Mane stepped aside. The spear tip grazed her pauldron, scraping out a tiny spark—the sound of the iron head scraping against obsidian plates was piercing. She didn't retreat. The dragon-kiss sword slid under the shaft of the second spear at a very tricky angle—valyrian steel silently cut through the hardwood spear shaft. The spear

head flew off and embedded itself half an inch into the low wall. The shaft was still held in the veteran's hand, but it was now half its length. The Dothraki Cavalry let out a short roar in unison—like a pack of wolves seeing prey fall simultaneously.

The third veteran thrust at her from behind. The spear tip was only three feet from her lower back.

She didn't even look. With a backhand stroke, she flicked the dragon-kiss sword backward—the blade cut in from beneath the shaft, slicing upward and severing it at the base. The spear head fell at the Unsullied's feet, sinking half an inch into the obsidian floor.

The cross-section of the shaft was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the veteran's expressionless face. His eyes blinked once—this was his closest reaction to shock.

The Dothraki Cavalry erupted in deafening cheers and whistles. Some shouted "White Mane" in the dothraki language, others shouted "Dragon Kiss." The two shouts blended together, indistinguishable, merging into a cacophonous wave of sound.

A centurion missing a front tooth grinned, revealing a gold tooth—that gold tooth had been made with the reward from his first kill.

“Commander, this sword is much more ruthless than your arakh. It takes three strikes to cut three spear shafts with an arakh; this sword only takes two.”

White Mane sheathed her sword and wiped the faint sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. There were calluses from blades on the back of her hand, making a very slight friction sound as they brushed her forehead.

Her amber eyes swept across the bloodless edge of the blade—valyrian steel did not hold blood, a trait she had witnessed for herself today for the first time. Beads of blood rolled off the edge like water droplets off oilcloth, leaving nothing behind.

A very faint curve of satisfaction rose at the corner of her mouth.

“The first spear shaft was dodged. That doesn't count. So it was one strike.”

“One strike?”

“One strike. The second strike was a follow-through. valyrian steel doesn't need strength to cut wood; it's like cutting goat cheese. This sword has only one flaw—it's too light. Not suitable for hacking. But for thrusting—”

She thrust the dragon-kiss sword straight forward. The tip of the sword stopped in mid-air, perfectly still. Her wrist was as steady as a stone carving. The sunlight reflected by the sword tip cast a tiny point of light on the low wall, a point that remained motionless, like a golden star pinned to the wall.

“An Unsullied's chainmail is no different from linen before it. No second thrust is needed.”

Drogon leaned against a nearby low wall, arms crossed. His tail swayed slowly behind him, the tip tapping lightly against the wall—tap, tap, tap.

He had watched White Mane's entire test, including her slicing two spear shafts, backhanding the third, and holding the sword tip motionless in the air for three seconds. The curve of his mouth grew wider and wider.