88: Chapter 88 The Strange Movement at Dawn

On the Nightfire Altar, the bonfire had been burning all night. Blue-green flames licked the night mist of Dragonstone, as the sea breeze poured between the altar's stone pillars, letting out a low howl. The wind bent the flames, which then snapped back, bent them again, and snapped back once more.

Melisandre stood alone before the fire. Her red robes fluttered in the night wind, the hem illuminated a dark red by the firelight. Her red eyes stared unblinkingly into the depths of the flames—ever since Drogon broke through two thousand bloodline points, she could see images more clearly than ever before each time she entered the fire.

But the images tonight made her freeze in place. Her hands stopped at the edge of the flames, her fingertips trembling slightly, her knuckles rendered translucent by the firelight.

Those were not vague prophetic symbols. Not metaphors requiring interpretation. Not the hazy imagery of "a dragon shadow flying in the starlight" from before.

It was a tactical simulation so clear that she could see the cracks between the bricks of the city walls. Every frame was as precise as a sand table—she could see the gaps in every battlement on the walls of King's Landing, see the rust on the Gold Cloaks' helmets dampened by rain, see the folds of the flags on the city walls overturned by the air current as a dragon shadow swept past.

She abruptly pulled her hands from the fire as if burned. Her fingertips traced a trail of blue-green light in the air. Then she turned, her red robes swirling in a sharp arc, and walked quickly toward the castle's council chamber.

"The Lord of Light be praised. This image is not a prophecy. It is a plan."

Only a few Dragonglass Lamps were lit beside the Obsidian Long Table. The light was dim, casting faces in half-light and half-shadow. The sea breeze poured in through the window cracks, the lamp flames flickered, and everyone's shadows swayed on the walls.

Daenerys sat at the head of the table, draped in an outer robe. Her silver-gold hair was uncombed, spilling over her shoulders, its ends shimmering with a warm glow under the lamps.

The purple flame stone ring on her left thumb was particularly conspicuous in the gloom. Her outer robe was plain, without embroidery, having only a single gold border at the collar.

Jorah and Barristan sat to her left and right. The two had clearly been dragged out of bed—Jorah's sword belt was buckled backward, the clasp lopsided at his side, and he hadn't noticed it himself. Barristan's white hair was a mess like a bird's nest, and his beard was unkempt, with several strands of white whiskers sticking out like sea spray blown by the wind.

White Mane leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her amber eyes carried a lingering sleepiness, and her eyelids were still slightly swollen. She muttered a curse in the dothraki language before switching back to the common tongue, her voice raspy.

"It had better be the Night King attacking. Otherwise, the reason for waking me in the middle of the night needs to be very valuable."

Drogon sat at the end of the long table near the window in his human form. His tail was coiled around the chair leg, the tip hooked onto the crossbeam. His vertical pupils shimmered with a dark golden light in the gloom, and the wisp of ethereal blue Ice Fire in the center of his pupils was brighter than usual.

He picked up a piece of cold black bread from a plate and chewed a couple of times. The bread was leftover from last night and had already become hard enough to make a sound when tapped.

Melisandre stood before the Nightfire Brazier. The flames in the copper basin were not as vigorous as usual, but the moment she reached her hands in, they suddenly shot upward, the blue-green firelight illuminating the entire council chamber. The firelight danced on her face, making her pale features look like a statue.

"Not the Night King yet. But the Dragon Senate's Enforcement Squad—they can fight a war for us before they arrive."

Jorah frowned. His finger tapped on the table, a short and dull sound.

"Fight who for us?"

Melisandre's red eyes moved away from the fire, scanning every face around the long table. Finally, they stopped on Daenerys.

"King's Landing."

Melisandre's finger made a gentle stroke in the fire. Blue-green flames entwined around her fingertips and then burst above the copper basin, unfolding into a dynamic vision.

King's Landing.

The pale red walls of the Red Keep were so clear in the vision that every battlement could be seen—the weathered brick seams on the battlements, the dried moss growing in the seams, the moss blown flat against the brick surface by the sea breeze. The Gold Cloaks on the walls were changing shifts; someone was yawning, white mist puffing from their mouth.

Then the sky—five dragon shadows descended from the clouds. The leading silver giant dragon's wingspan eclipsed the moonlight, each scale reflecting light from different moments simultaneously.

Behind followed three Dragonborn Knights of dark red, deep blue, and bronze, and at the very rear was that Humanoid Apostle with spread Starlight Wings, which dissipated silver-white powder under the moonlight.

The Gold Cloaks' scorpions fired a volley into the sky. Iron arrows fell like rain—first the thick-shafted bolts from the scorpions, then the thin-shafted short arrows from the Anti-air Crossbows, and finally everything on the walls that could be shot.

The dragon shadows exchanged fire with the bolts. The dark red dragon was the first to dive, its Dragon Breath sweeping across the top of the walls. Half a tower collapsed silently in silver flames—it didn't explode, it melted, the stone dripping down like wax.

Then—a green light exploded beneath the Red Keep. wildfire. Green flames soared into the sky, tearing the main tower of the Red Keep in half. Half of the tower slid into the Blackwater River, splashing a column of water higher than the tower itself. The Dragon Senate's Enforcement Squad was forced to scatter to avoid the explosion. One of the dark red Dragonborn Knights was caught in the green fire, a large hole burned through its wing membrane, and it crashed onto the roofs of Flea Bottom, smashing half a street.

The vision ended. The flames returned to their normal blue-green flickering. A ring of frost condensed around the edge of the copper basin, the frost patterns creeping down the sides.

Melisandre withdrew her hands. Her voice was calm, but her tone carried a certain cold certainty.

"This is what I saw. It is not a prophecy—prophecies are vague and require interpretation. But this is a tactical simulation so clear it can almost be touched."

"The Lord of Light placed it in the fire for me to see. Its meaning is—let the enemies destroy each other."

She paused. Her red eyes scanned every face around the long table. Jorah. Barristan. White Mane. Drogon. Daenerys. She looked at them one by one, as if confirming that everyone understood.

"The Enforcement Squad is coming to Dragonstone to find the true dragon. But if we send the true dragon to King's Landing ahead of time and make Cersei mistakenly believe the Targaryens are launching an air raid on the Red Keep—then after the Enforcement Squad finds nothing at Dragonstone, they will follow Lord Drogon's bloodline signal to King's Landing."

"And the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing will mistake the Enforcement Squad for our dragons. They will fight each other in the skies above King's Landing."

A long silence followed.

Jorah's finger stopped at the location of King's Landing on the map. His mouth was slightly open, but he did not speak.

His lips moved twice, then closed again.

Barristan's white eyebrows knitted together, his fingers resting on the table tightening unconsciously, tapping lightly on the stone tabletop. White Mane, who had been leaning against the wall, slowly stood up straight, her head leaving the wall, her amber eyes narrowing slightly.

Jorah was the first to speak. His voice was raspy, like a traveler who had walked in the desert all day.

"Lady Melisandre. You just said—send the true dragon to King's Landing. Are you suggesting Drogon go to King's Landing alone to lure the Enforcement Squad there and let them and Cersei's Gold Cloaks exhaust each other? This is using the five hundred thousand civilians of King's Landing as a battlefield."

"The five hundred thousand people of King's Landing are consumables in Cersei's hands, a burden when the Others march south, and will die in a siege regardless."

Melisandre's tone was flat, as if reciting a pre-written prayer.

"But if we let the Enforcement Squad and the Gold Cloaks fight in the skies above King's Landing—the first to die will be the Gold Cloaks and the Enforcement Squad. Next is Cersei's underground wildfire; if it's ignited by Dragon Breath, the Red Keep will be gone, and Cersei will be gone too."

"Only then come the civilians—and some of them can be secretly evacuated through House Tyrell's channels before the battle breaks out. Not all can be evacuated. But those in Flea Bottom can be. The poor of Flea Bottom hate Cersei the most; they will be the easiest to move."

Barristan shook his head. The old knight's white hair swayed under the Dragonglass Lamps. His voice was aged and solemn, like an old sword drawn from its scabbard.

"I object. This is using human lives as bait. Targaryen dragons should not reclaim the iron throne in such a manner."

"Ser Barristan. You fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

Melisandre's red eyes looked directly at him. No flinching. No blinking.

"You know that war never asks for means, only for results. If we lay siege, the five hundred thousand in King's Landing will die all the same—die from the famine of the siege, die in the wildfire explosions, die in the conversion to wights when the Others march south. What is the difference in whose hands they die?"

Barristan was silent for a moment. Then he looked up, his grey eyes showing no anger, only the weariness unique to an old soldier.

"The difference lies in—who caused their deaths. The enemy, or ourselves."