87: Chapter 87 The Position of the Tail

Daenerys put away the defense plans and blew out the Dragonglass Lamp on the low table. The bedchamber fell into a gentle darkness, illuminated only by the faint red glow from the volcanic crater outside the window—the light cast extremely faint, flowing patterns on the ceiling, like lava flowing backward.

She lay down, turning on her side with her back to him. Her silver hair spread across the stone pillow, the ends fanning out beside it. But in the darkness, her hand reached out to the edge of the bed and patted the foot of it. She tapped the stone bedboard twice, making a dull, soft sound—thump, thump.

"Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you go to Storms End, and you'll have to prepare for battle after you return. It might not be this quiet again for a long time."

Drogon didn't answer. But in the darkness, his tail knowingly slipped under the covers and wrapped around her ankle. The tip of the tail pressed against the inside of her ankle, the scales warm. He sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning his back against the edge of the bed, and closed his vertical pupils.

In the darkness, Daenerys's fingers dangled from the bed. Her fingertips lightly rested on a scale on his shoulder. That scale was slightly thinner than the others—it was a new scale that had grown after being pierced by an ice spear on the walls of Meereen, its edges still bearing translucent keratin.

Every time she touched this scale, a very slight sting would come through the blood bond resonance. It wasn't his pain. It was her own—the pain of seeing the ice spear pierce his left wing on the city walls that day.

Her inner thoughts seeped through the blood bond, as clear as a whisper in his ear.

"I won't let anyone pierce you with a spear again. Not an ice spear, nor the claws of a Chronos Dragon."

Drogon didn't respond. But his tail tightened slightly around her ankle—like a silent nod.

Outside the window, the red light from the crater slowly flickered.

2

At the same moment. White Mane's room.

She sat on the cot. She wasn't sleeping. Holding the dragon-kiss sword, she was wiping the blade with a soft cloth soaked in oil. The oilcloth slid slowly over the blade, each stroke following the dark ripples of the valyrian steel—from the crossguard to the tip, then from the tip back to the crossguard. The oilcloth made a very faint hissing sound as it slid across the edge, like a snake flicking its tongue.

She wiped the blade until it could reflect her own amber eyes; her eyes reflected the ripples on the blade, and the ripples reflected her eyes, layer upon layer.

She had already disassembled the old scabbard. The leather of the scabbard had cracked, the split extending from the mouth all the way to the tip, the edges of the leather curling up like parched lips.

She used a utility knife by the bed to punch several small holes on both sides of the crack, sewing it together stitch by stitch with waxed leather thread. The stitches were crooked but sturdy—she was a warrior, not a leatherworker. The newly sewn leather thread gleamed in a lighter color than the old leather under the moonlight, like a new scar.

The Brand on the back of her neck had briefly grown hot when Drogon's bloodline broke through to two thousand points.

During those three hours, she was sparring on the training grounds when the Brand suddenly burned—not warm, but scorching, as if someone had pressed a red-hot horseshoe against her neck. Her movements slowed for half a beat, and she was struck in the shoulder by the spear shaft of an Unsullied veteran. There was still a bruise on her shoulder now.

Now the Brand had returned to a gentle warmth. She put down the sword and reached out to press the Brand. Her fingertip pressed into the center of the claw mark—that was the hottest part, but now it was only warm.

Through the Brand, she could sense his current state. Calm. Content—that kind of full, stable satisfaction. Daenerys's fingers were resting on the new scale on his shoulder, and the sensation of that scale was subtly transmitted through the Brand—slightly thin, slightly soft, with keratin on the edges. There was also a faint, lingering sense of satisfaction with the sword in her hand—he felt he had chosen the right person.

White Mane spoke in a low voice. To the Brand. As if having a conversation with it.

"He said the sword doesn't need sharpening. But no one repairs the scabbard. In the end, it still falls to me."

She sheathed the dragon-kiss sword into her mended old scabbard. The fit was perfect—though the stitches were crooked, the blade made a very faint metallic friction sound as it slid into the mouth, the edge fitting perfectly against the inner walls of the leather sheath. She placed the sword by the side of the bed, within reach. Then she lay down on the cot, wrapping herself tightly in a blanket. The blanket was old, its corners frayed. The warm temperature of the Brand pulsed steadily on the back of her neck, neither fast nor slow.

She closed her eyes. A final sentence to herself. It was in the dothraki language—only when talking to herself would she use her mother tongue.

"Storms End. Tomorrow. Don't bring back another woman."

Outside the window, the moon of Dragonstone was half-obscured by volcanic steam. The moonlight spilled across her face through the mist, plating her cheekbones in silver-white. The corner of her mouth moved slightly in the darkness—not a smile, but a curve somewhere between a warning and helplessness.

The heartbeat on the other end of the Brand was steady as usual, about fifty beats per minute—that dragon had probably fallen asleep on the floor, his tail still wrapped around Daenerys's ankle.

She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. She murmured another sentence in the dothraki language—this one even lower, so low that only the pillow could hear it.

"At least the temperature is just right tonight."

Meereen. Great Pyramid. Late night. There was a time difference with Dragonstone—it was late night on Dragonstone, but already early morning in Meereen.

Missandei was slumped over the desk. Before her lay an open notebook—"A Preliminary Study of Dragon Social Hierarchy and Contract Systems," Chapter Eleven. The corners of the pages were frayed from being turned so often. Beside it sat an empty cup of goat's milk, a layer of milk skin condensed at the bottom, with a few grains of extremely fine black salt sticking to the skin.

Her quill was rapidly writing a new annotation in the margin, the handwriting very cramped, clearly because her thoughts were moving too fast for her pen to keep up.

"According to the latest intelligence sent by raven—the prophecy records of Lady Melisandre—when the Dragon Lord's bloodline broke through two thousand points, the Brand on the back of the neck of the Brand-holder—Commander White Mane—experienced a predictable brief temperature rise, lasting about three hours, before returning to a gentle warmth."

"This is consistent with the hypothesis in Chapter Ten that 'Brand resonance precision enhances as bloodline improves'—the Brand produces an instantaneous shock during a bloodline leap, but the temperature is actually lower after stabilization than before the leap. But more importantly—the Mother of Dragons's Consort Mark remained a stable shimmer throughout the process, with no abnormal fluctuations."

"Inference: The stability of the Consort Mark is higher than that of the Domination Brand. This aligns with the hierarchical logic in the Old Valyria contract system where 'core consorts take precedence over secondary consorts.' Note: This discovery was initially discussed in Chapter Nine, 'The Hierarchical Basis of the Right of Punishment,' and is further verified in this chapter. Additional note—the black salt samples have been exhausted and need replenishment."

She put down the pen and rubbed her aching eyes. Her large amber eyes were bloodshot—she had been writing for three consecutive nights. Then she took a tiny cloth bag from a drawer—inside was the black salt Drogon had sent with the last raven.

The bag was almost empty, with only a small pinch left, glinting with fine, dark-gold specks under the candlelight. She pinched a grain and placed it on the tip of her tongue. Salty. Sulfurous. And the stimulation of extremely fine dragonglass powder bursting on her tongue—like eating a small grain of popping candy.

She wrinkled her nose. Not because it tasted bad. But because every time she ate it, her tongue would be numb for half an hour.

"The black salt is finished today. Based on the interval of his last letter—the next letter will probably be after the Storms End mission. I need to remind him to supplement the data then—whether the bloodline suppression between the Enforcement Squad and the Ancestral Dragon applies to the same hierarchical system. Also, he owes me a dragon-rock crystal sample. And that question he asked last time—'the upper limit for the number of secondary consorts'—I've searched through all the ancient texts and couldn't find a definite number, but his current three have already caused the Brand temperature to fluctuate three times—"

She yawned and slumped onto the notebook. She fell asleep. Her cheek pressed against the title of Chapter Eleven in the notebook—"Dragon Nest Expansion: On the Correlation Between the Contractual Upper Limit of secondary consorts and the Dragon Lord's Bloodline Endurance." The moonlight from the window fell on her hair, plating those few curls of black hair in silver-white, forming a gentle contrast with her amber skin.

Dawn. Dragonstone harbor. The sea surface shimmered with grayish-blue morning light, not yet heated by the sun. The sea breeze poured in from the Narrow Sea, bringing the smell of salt and the fishy scent from distant fishing boats—fishing boats were heading out today, their sails looking like a few shells in the distance.

Drogon stood on the harbor pier. Dragon form. With a wingspan of thirty-four meters, he cast a massive shadow in the morning light, covering half the pier and a large stretch of black sand beach.

The dark-gold patterns on the edges of his scales were denser than yesterday—the patterns on every scale had extended inward by nearly double from the edges. He held a small leather bag in his mouth—inside were a map of Storms End and a token for Stannis.

It was something Daenerys had him bring along, an old House Targaryen seal, to prove he wasn't there to declare war.

Rhaegal and Viserion circled in the sky behind him. Rhaegal's green scales looked like bronze in the morning light, while Viserion's creamy-white scales were almost transparent. They weren't yet adults, their wingspans only a third of his, but they flew steadily behind him—he was acting as their navigator.

Daenerys stood at the end of the pier. White Mane was behind her, the dragon-kiss sword at her waist, the dragon-shaped crossguard of the hilt glinting coldly in the morning light. Melisandre stood by the Nightfire Altar further away, her red robes filled by the morning breeze, her hands just withdrawn from the flames—she was performing the final prophecy of the morning.

Drogon lowered his head. The dragon's head drew close to Daenerys. His vertical pupils met her gaze, the dark gold within them deeper than yesterday. She touched the scale on the bridge of his nose with her fingertip.

That scale was slightly thinner than the other scales on the bridge of his nose—it was a new scale, grown after being scraped by rubble on the walls of Meereen last time, its edges still bearing translucent keratin, feeling softer than the surrounding scales.

"Back the same day."

"Back the same day."

"Don't go looking for trouble."

"...I'll try."

She flicked the bridge of his nose lightly with her finger. Her nail clicked against the scale, making a very faint, crisp sound—tap. He blinked his vertical pupils. Then he beat his wings. The gale kicked up by the dragon wings blew the black sand on the pier into a black mist, the grains clattering against the pier railings. Daenerys took a step back, raising her hand to shield her eyes as the black sand flew past her fingers.

The massive black dragon rose from the harbor, flying into the morning light toward Storms End. Rhaegal and Viserion followed on his flanks, the shadows of the three dragons dragging three long black streaks across the sea, like three elongated ink marks.

Daenerys stood on the pier, watching the largest shadow gradually grow smaller. The golden rose brooch on the inside of her collar glinted slightly in the morning light—the three nicks on the rose petals were illuminated clearly enough to see the depth of each cut. Her fingers unconsciously touched the position of the brooch—it was very close to her heart.

White Mane was behind her, hand on the hilt of the dragon-kiss sword. Her Brand grew slightly hot for a moment as Drogon took off—it lasted less than a breath, then returned to a gentle warmth. She whispered a sentence in the dothraki language, her voice as soft as if she were counting horseshoes.

"Three and a half weeks. Enough for him to break through again. And enough for me to finish sewing the scabbard—this time with new leather."

Melisandre, in front of the Nightfire Altar, thrust her hands into the flames. Blue-green tongues of fire entwined around her fingertips, more active than usual. Her red eyes stared at the receding dark-gold speck in the flames. A very faint smile touched the corners of her mouth—a shallow smile, but the firelight in her red eyes was dancing.