85: Chapter 85 The Temperature of the Brand

White Mane walked toward him from the center of the training ground. The Dothraki Cavalry tactfully continued their clamor about other things—someone started betting on who could withstand more than two moves from White Mane using a spear shaft, and the odds had already risen to ten to one.

She sheathed the dragon-kiss sword into a newly fitted scabbard at her waist. It was an old scabbard Jorah had scavenged from the castle armory; the leather was cracked but the size was right, and the cracks had been sewn with leather cord. She stopped in front of him. Her amber eyes looked straight into his vertical pupils, only two steps away.

“The sword is fine. The sharpness far exceeds expectations—valyrian steel is lighter and sharper than all the legends I've heard. The balance is suitable for mounted combat. The downside is the lightness—but I can adapt. It's nearly half the weight of a scimitar, so I'll need to relearn how to apply force for hacking.”

“Anything else?”

“And also—since you returned from King's Landing, the temperature of the Brand has been a bit lower than usual. It's not that it's no longer hot, but it's more stable. Before, the Brand would get burning hot whenever you got close to me—like a red-hot horseshoe pressed against my neck.”

“Now it's warm. It's as if after your dragon nature was released for a round in King's Landing, the instinctive summons to your secondary mate has weakened.”

Drogon's tail froze behind him for a moment. The tip of the tail stopped in mid-air, neither up nor down.

“You can even feel that.”

“The Brand is two-way. You can't feel your own temperature changes, but I can. Every night before I go to sleep, the temperature of the Brand is different.”

“The highest was the night you first absorbed Orys's dragon bones—it was so hot I almost applied a wet towel. The lowest was last night—warm, just enough to feel where you are, but not enough to keep me from sleeping.”

She reached out and pressed the location of the Brand on the back of her neck. Her fingers pressed lightly on the Brand. The dark gold claw mark of the Brand glowed slightly on her bronze skin, the shapes of the five claw tips clearly visible.

“I don't dislike this temperature. It was too hot before. Now it's just right—I can feel where you are, but it won't keep me from sleeping. Keep it at this temperature. Don't increase it anymore.”

“This temperature isn't something I adjust manually. It depends on my bloodline and emotions—the higher the bloodline, the stronger the Brand. The greater the emotional fluctuation, the hotter the Brand. When I saw Joffrey in King's Landing last time, did the Brand get hot for a moment?”

“It did. For about two breaths. Then you suppressed it.”

“That was a surge of destructive urge. I wasn't angry at you—I was angry at Joffrey. The Brand has connected you and him together.”

White Mane fell silent for a moment. Then the corner of her mouth moved—it wasn't a smile, but a sort of realization after being unexpectedly told the truth.

“...So that time was because of Joffrey. I thought you had taken a liking to another woman in King's Landing.”

“In King's Landing, I only bought a jar of black salt and a fake sword. Plus a brooch—that was a political ally. Not a woman.”

“A brooch means a woman. Don't make excuses.”

She turned and walked back to the center of the training ground. After a few steps, she threw back a sentence without looking.

Her voice was flat, but there was a trace of extremely faint, deliberately suppressed expectation in the emotions transmitted by the Brand—like an unripe wild berry hidden in the grass.

“Come to my room tonight to test the sword. The scabbard needs to be replaced; this old one Jorah found is already cracked. Help me check the size. Also—you owe me a scabbard. You gave me the sword, so you should provide the scabbard too. That's the rule.”

Drogon's tail drew a circle behind him extremely slowly. He watched White Mane raise the dragon-kiss sword again and begin a new round of sparring with the Unsullied veterans under the setting sun.

Her silver-white braid swung in an arc behind her shoulder, and the blade drew silent silver lines in the air, each silver line landing precisely on the same spot on the spear shaft.

“System. Was she just saying in a roundabout way—that she likes this sword?”

“Yes. But Illyse White-Mane's habit of expression is to 'replace gratitude with accusation'. If the host wishes to confirm, you can check the Brand's emotions—Current emotional labels: Satisfaction accounts for about forty percent.”

“Annoyance due to the scabbard being too worn is about twenty percent. Relaxation after the Brand's temperature stabilized is about thirty percent. Vague alertness toward the brown-haired woman in King's Landing is about ten percent. Four emotions exist simultaneously, contradicting but not conflicting with each other.”

“That last one—does she know it herself?”

“Inferred from the Brand's fluctuations—she might be somewhat unwilling to admit it. Nor does she intend to bring it up proactively. But if the host brings back another woman next time, the Brand's temperature might surge directly to the burning level.”

Evening. The crater of Dragonstone.

The setting sun dyed the volcanic steam orange-red; a column of steam rose from the crater, blown into a diagonal line by the wind. The smell of sulfur was stronger than during the day, so strong it could be tasted—licking the air was like licking a bar of sulfur soap.

Drogon landed in his dragon form on the obsidian platform at the entrance of the ore vein. His black dragon body, with a wingspan of nearly thirty-four meters, cast a huge shadow under the setting sun, covering half of the volcanic wall.

The edges of his scales were inlaid with dark gold patterns, and an ice-blue halo flowed faintly within the patterns. He held several pieces of roasted venison in his mouth that he had picked up from the castle kitchen—wrapped in oil paper, the corners of the paper were still dripping oil, which hissed as it hit the volcanic rock.

“Current bloodline is one thousand nine hundred and fifty. Only fifty points away from two thousand points. Breaking through two thousand points will trigger the following events—Title Upgrade: Ancestor of All Dragons (Inheritance) → Ancestor of All Dragons (Awakened).”

“New passive skill unlocked: Ancestral Dragon Domain—All dragon-blooded creatures within a hundred-meter radius will suffer an additional twenty percent bloodline suppression from the host.”

“Assessment level raised? What are they rating me as now?”

“A-rank. The recommendation is to prioritize negotiation, supplemented by purification. After breaking through two thousand points, it may be raised to A+ or S-—at which point the priority of negotiation and purification may be reversed. The orders received by the Chronos Dragon captain might change from 'bring back' to 'on the spot'.”

“Whatever. Break through first. When they arrive in four weeks, whether I have fifty points more or less of bloodline, they intend to purify me. In that case, better to have fifty points more. Let them see an A+ instead of an A when they come.”

He placed the venison on a clean volcanic rock at the cave entrance. Folding his wings, he squeezed into the mine. His dragon body made a sound of falling rubble as he squeezed through the narrow passage—obsidian fragments were scraped off the cave walls, clattering to the ground. His tail dragged behind him, and the ice cone at the tip of his tail drew a long, thin white mark on the rock wall, with a thin layer of frost condensing at the edges of the mark.

Orys's secret chamber. The dragon-glass pillar pulsed with a deep blue light. Beat by beat, it synchronized with his heartbeat—it had begun to accelerate when he was at the cave entrance, and by the time he entered the secret chamber, the pillar's pulsation frequency was completely consistent with his heartbeat.

The runes of Orys on the pillar had rearranged since his last decryption, now forming a new passage of Old Valyrian—the script was ancient, with fine golden lines embedded in the strokes, as if someone had poured liquid gold into the grooves of the runes.

“If a descendant returns, all the remaining energy in the pillar may be taken.”

Drogon pressed his dragon claw onto the dragon-glass pillar. His five fingers spread out, and his claw tips hooked into the rune grooves—the depth of the grooves was just right to accommodate his claw tips, no more, no less. The energy remaining in the pillar, which Orys had deliberately left for future Targaryen dragons, surged into his body along his dragon claws.

It wasn't the violent, volcanic-eruption-like impact of when he had absorbed the relics before.

That time, when he absorbed the core of the nameless Dragon King, the energy had poured in like an explosion. This time, the energy flow was smooth and continuous—like warm dragon blood slowly flowing through his blood vessels to his entire body.

That was the 'gentle transmission' Orys had set up at the cost of his own life before the Doom, just so his successor wouldn't have to endure the pain he had suffered during the breakthrough. He was still thinking about this at the last moment before his death.

Dark gold light slowly flowed from the dragon-glass pillar to his dragon body.

Wherever the light flowed, the scales there would stand up one by one, being reforged in the light—starting from the tip of the tail, the scales stood up in sequence like a wheat field blown by the wind.

The ice-blue patterns at the edges of the scales expanded under the impact of the dark gold light, penetrating inward from the edges and finally merging with the dark gold. Every scale was now black with gold patterns, the edges of the gold patterns inlaid with a circle of extremely fine ice-blue halo.

The branches on the dragon horns were fine-tuned in the light—adjusting from four branches to a more symmetrical form, with each branch tip condensing into extremely fine ice crystals. The ice crystals sparkled in the dark gold light, as if a circle of crushed diamonds had been inlaid on the tips of the horns.

Extremely fine dark gold patterns appeared on the surface of the tail spike's ice cone, as if someone had drawn countless thin lines on the ice cone with molten gold, each thin line curving along the arc of the ice cone.

The wingspan slowly stretched in the light. The wing bones lengthened joint by joint, and the membrane between the joints was rewoven in the golden light—old fibers broke, and new fibers were generated, each new fiber thicker and tougher than the old. Thirty-one meters. Thirty-two meters. Thirty-three meters. Thirty-four meters. The wing membrane appeared translucent dark gold in the light, and the dense network of blood vessels inside the wing membrane could be seen glowing—like the veins of a golden leaf.

System prompt. White background with gold characters. The edges of the text were inlaid with an extremely fine golden halo—the system only used this visual style during major breakthroughs.

“Bloodline +50. Current Bloodline: 1950 → 2000. Title Upgrade: Ancestor of All Dragons (Inheritance) → Ancestor of All Dragons (Awakened).”

Drogon opened his dragon eyes. Dark gold light suddenly erupted from his pupils, illuminating the entire secret chamber in minute detail. Every scratch on the stone walls of Orys's secret chamber, every rune on the dragon-glass pillar, every grain of dragon-glass debris on the floor—all were crystal clear in the dark gold light. He could even see the wear marks left by Orys's fingertips when he carved the words four hundred years ago.

His perception range suddenly expanded at this moment.

“They felt it. Five signals. The Chronos Dragon captain paused for a second for me—he's probably thinking 'this variable has upgraded again, jumping from A to A+'. System, their current distance.”

“Enforcement Squad's current distance: about four weeks' journey—if they maintain their original speed. But after the captain perceived the host's breakthrough, the entire squad's speed increased by about fifteen percent—the Chronos Dragon is using time distortion to shorten the travel time of the entire team.”

“The arrival time may be advanced to three and a half weeks. It is recommended that the host complete combat preparations in advance—Dragonstone's defensive fortifications need to be completed within two weeks, leaving one week for drills.”

“Three and a half weeks. Enough for me to go to Storms End to recover the third relic. A round trip in one day. I can make it back.”

Drogon exited his dragon form. He sat in the corner of the secret chamber in human form, leaning against the cold dragon-glass pillar. The pillar now only had an extremely weak faint light, its internal energy having been completely absorbed by him, with only a faint, almost imperceptible pulsation remaining in the deepest part of the pillar's core—that was a wisp of consciousness fragment left by Orys in the pillar, weakened to the point of being almost unperceivable.

He picked up the roasted venison he had brought in earlier from the nearby volcanic rock—it was still wrapped in oil paper, but the meat had gone cold. He took a bite. Chewed twice. His tail tapped the ground in dissatisfaction.

“It's cold. The dragon-glass pillar's energy is hot, so why did the venison get cold so fast?”

“Because the host spent about three hours absorbing energy. Roasted venison left at room temperature for three hours will naturally go cold—although Dragonstone is a volcanic island, the temperature in the secret chamber is only slightly higher than room temperature. The host can carry the venison to the crater to reheat it; it is estimated that it can return to edible temperature in fifteen seconds—”

“No. Cold meat is still meat.”

He swallowed the venison in a few bites. Although the meat was cold, the fat had solidified in the meat fibers, giving it a unique toughness characteristic of cold roasted meat. He crumpled the oil paper into a ball and stuffed it into his short robe pocket. His tail tapped the ground again—this time because he had eaten too fast and choked.