93: Chapter 93 The Downpour Outside the City Gate

The torrential rain finally poured down. The curtain of rain washed the iron-gray walls of Storms End into a deep, dark black.

Drogon wrapped the bones of the Storm Ancestor Dragon in oilcloth and tied them behind his saddle. Outside the oilcloth, he wrapped another layer of waxed cloth, securing the edges with leather cord.

He swung onto his horse, his cloak clinging to his body in the downpour, rain streaming off the edge of his hood and dripping onto the horse's mane. He looked back at Storms End in the wind and rain—the stag banner on the tower was beaten flat against the flagpole by the rain, like a soaked shroud.

Stannis did not come out to see him off, but he had a guard deliver a message. The guard stood at the city gate, rain pouring down his helmet, his voice barely audible amidst the storm.

"Lord Stannis says—take the relic. He will continue to abide by the agreement. But he will not bend the knee to the Targaryen. After the war against the White Walkers, he will take the lightbringer to the battlefield. Not for the iron throne—but to prove that the sword can cut down White Walkers even without its light."

Drogon spurred his horse. The hooves splashed mud into the rainwater. The mud splattered onto the guard's shins, but the guard did not move.

"Then we shall meet on the battlefield against the White Walkers."

Dragonstone. Deep in the night.

The storm also struck Dragonstone. Outside the window, lightning flashed and thunder rolled, the red glow of the volcano flickering through the curtain of rain. Each bolt of lightning illuminated the royal bedchamber in a ghastly white, followed immediately by thunder that made the stone window frames hum.

The volcanic steam was pressed down by the heavy rain, and the smell of sulfur was stronger than usual—so thick it could be tasted.

Daenerys sat on the edge of the bed.

In her hands, she held the latest intelligence compiled by Jorah—three pieces of parchment, covered in dense handwriting. There was no reply from the North yet; the Young Wolf's raven might have been delayed by the storm.

The progress of dismantling the Tyrell wildfire was only one percent—that old servant only remembered the entrances to two secret passages and could not recall the others.

The Dragon Senate Enforcement Squad had drawn closer, and Melisandre marked a new red circle on the coordinates with a cinnabar pen. She put down the intelligence. The wind blew a page of the reports over on the low table.

The door was pushed open. Drogon walked in, soaked to the bone. His tunic clung to his scales, revealing the outline of every single one. Water droplets from his tail dripped continuously onto the stone floor, pooling into a small puddle. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his vertical pupils glowed with a dim golden light in the darkness.

He carried the oilcloth-wrapped bones of the Storm Ancestor Dragon in his hand. The oilcloth was wrapped in waxed cloth, but some rainwater had seeped in, making the corners soggy. He placed the bundle in the corner with a gentle movement.

"Did the relic retrieval go smoothly?"

"Smoothly. Stannis didn't stop me. The lightbringer is a real sword with fake light—I apologized on Melisandre's behalf. He took thirty seconds to process it, then gave a cold laugh and set the sword on the table. He also said we'll meet on the battlefield against the White Walkers."

He sat down on the floor beside the bed. His soaked tail spread out on the stone slabs, the tip flicking gently and splashing a few droplets of water. This was a habit he had developed since returning from King's Landing—sitting on the floor was more comfortable than a chair because his tail could be spread out without needing to be coiled.

Daenerys did not respond. She placed the intelligence in her hand on the low table and lowered her eyes, remaining silent for a long time. A bolt of lightning outside the window illuminated her profile in a pale light, and the thunder cracked two seconds later. Then she spoke, her voice very soft, but every word was steady.

"That plan. Melisandre's plan. I've thought about it all day. From when the meeting ended at dawn until now. I tried to sleep twice—but couldn't. The first time I was woken up by thunder. The second time I woke up on my own."

Drogon said nothing.

"If we follow the plan—you enter King's Landing alone, stay for three weeks, or even longer. You will have no dragon form there, no scales for protection, no me, no White Mane, no reinforcements from Dragonstone."

"You have to survive between two enemies, Cersei's Gold Cloaks and the Dragon Senate Enforcement Squad, in your fully human form, and then trick them into destroying each other. The prerequisite for this plan to succeed—is that you survive. If you die—"

Her fingers resting on her knees tightened slightly. The purple flame-stone ring reflected the lightning from outside the window between her fingers. She didn't continue with words like "what will happen to me." She simply stopped.

Drogon's tail slid silently across the stone floor in the darkness, slipping under the edge of the blanket at her feet. It gently wrapped around her ankle. The tail was wet, but the temperature was warmer than the chill she had imagined. His voice was lower than usual, lacking its customary roguishness.

"I won't die. During my first mission in King's Landing, I was chased by Gold Cloaks—I shook them off after making three turns in the alleys of Flea Bottom. I was bumped into by Margaery—not only did she not call the guards, but she also became my ally. I haggled in the black market—and taught the vendor of fake swords a lesson. I didn't die then. This time, before I go in, I will finalize the hideouts, retreat routes, and emergency contacts with Margaery. Melisandre's flames have already marked five hideouts. I don't do things unprepared. You said it yourself—you don't fight battles you aren't prepared for. I am your dragon. I learn from you."

Daenerys closed her eyes. The blood bond resonance was exceptionally clear in the rainy night—his heartbeat was steady, about fifty beats per minute. Her own heartbeat was faster, about eighty beats per minute. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"I need you to promise me one thing."

"Say it."

"After you enter King's Landing, if you determine that the plan is out of control—if the Enforcement Squad sees through the trap, or the Gold Cloaks don't open fire, or the wildfire explodes prematurely—do not force it. Fly back immediately. Regardless of whether King's Landing can be taken, regardless of whether the iron throne is still there—fly back."

Drogon fell silent. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto her knees, making her shiver slightly from the cold. His tail tightened around her ankle—not just once, but twice.

Daenerys opened her eyes. Her purple eyes looked at him in the darkness.

"The iron throne can be fought for later. The Dragon Senate Enforcement Squad can be met in battle at Dragonstone. But you must not—"

She paused. The blood bond resonance transmitted the second half of the sentence deep into his consciousness. It wasn't language, but emotion. It was something that had never changed since the moment she picked him up from the funeral pyre, out of his egg.

Drogon remained silent in the darkness for a long time. Then he stood up, bent down, and pressed his forehead against hers. His hair was still wet, and rainwater dripped from his hair onto her knees. His tail tightly coiled around her ankle. His scales pressed against her lower leg.

"I promise. If it goes out of control—I will fly back. But before that, let me take care of those two problems—Cersei and the Enforcement Squad—together. You just wait for my signal on Dragonstone."

The torrential rain poured onto the Nightfire Altar. The bonfire was doused, leaving only a blue-green core in the center that refused to be extinguished, hissing in the rain. Steam mixed with smoke rose into the night sky.

Melisandre stood in the rain. Her red robes were soaked and clung to her body, outlining her slender shoulders and waist. Rainwater streamed down her red hair, the ends sticking to her collarbone.

But she did not leave. Her fingers slowly stirred the remaining flames, kneading all the reactions from tonight's meeting—Jorah's skepticism, Barristan's veteran bottom line, White Mane's pebble, Drogon's addition about the wildfire, Daenerys's unspoken decision—into the flames, allowing the Lord of Light to re-simulate the outcome.

A more detailed image than the one at dawn emerged in the flames.

King's Landing was marked with three colored zones.

Red: The area potentially affected by the wildfire explosion, accounting for about one-third of the city.

Yellow: The airspace potentially covered by the crossfire between the Enforcement Squad and the Gold Cloaks.

Blue: Five small points of light—the underground wine cellar of the Tyrell Mansion, the secret passage in the Flea Bottom black market, the wildfire chamber in the ruins of the Dragonpit, the crypts beneath the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, and Margaery's private prayer room inside the Red Keep.

Five hideouts. One retreat route from Flea Bottom leading to the Dragon Gate. One secret passage from beneath the Red Keep leading to the ferry on the Blackwater River—that was left by Orys Targaryen.

Melisandre looked at the blue marks in the flames, her lips silently counting them. Then she looked up toward the direction of the castle's royal bedchamber. Her red eyes flickered in the curtain of rain with a glimmer of fanaticism intertwined with calculation.

"Five hideouts. One retreat route. Three weeks of preparation. The Mother of Dragons did not veto. The True Dragon did not refuse. Lord of Light—I offer this plan. May the flames bless the Targaryen and the True Dragon."

She knelt in the rain. Her knees struck the soaked obsidian ground, and rainwater washed over them. She reached both hands into the remaining core of the fire.

The flames coiled around her fingertips, blue-green tongues of fire licking her knuckles. The flames sealed this revised plan into a small scroll of prophecy—this was an echo of light that only she could see.

The scroll slowly took shape in the flames, woven from blue-green threads of fire.

She prepared to deliver the final draft of the plan to Daenerys the next morning.