Chapter 94: Returning Gravely Wounded
Drogon wasn't particularly convinced by the theory that Cersei had poisoned Tywin.
As the pillar of House Lannister, Tywin was both a master of war and a master of intrigue. With such a towering figure sheltering her, Cersei had enjoyed all the benefits of standing beneath a great tree—why would she ever commit patricide?
No matter how deeply she hated Tyrion, killing Tywin just to frame him made little sense.
After mulling it over for a long while without reaching any conclusion, Drogon finally gave up. This kind of political murder was far too mentally exhausting. He'd rather let Varys deliver the answer when the time came.
Aside from the two death notices, Varys had included several other updates:
The ruler of the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy, had fallen to his death from a bridge. His brother, Euron Greyjoy, captain of the Silence, had returned from his voyages and seized control of the islands.
Oberyn Martell had returned to Dorne.
Stannis Baratheon had left Dragonstone and vanished from sight—Drogon knew full well that he had likely followed Melisandre's advice and marched toward the Wall.
As for Ramsay Bolton, after withdrawing from Winterfell, he had taken advantage of the complacency of the newly stationed Northern army and launched a sudden counterattack.
Using weaknesses he had deliberately left behind in the castle walls, Ramsay slaughtered his way back into Winterfell, almost completely annihilating the Northern forces. A large number of Northern nobles were captured, and the North fell fully into his grasp.
Afterward, Ramsay sent a letter swearing fealty to Queen Regent Cersei, requesting recognition as his father Roose Bolton's heir and the title of Warden of the North.
Upon learning that Ramsay had nearly wiped out the Northern army that had returned with the Karstarks, Cersei was overjoyed. She granted all of his requests without hesitation.
Winterfell's situation matched Drogon's own suspicions. And though he despised Ramsay's cruelty and perversion, he had to admit the man possessed both ruthlessness and cunning—qualities of a true warlord.
In the original timeline, Ramsay had personally stabbed his father to death. This time, he hadn't needed to dirty his hands—the Blackfish had effectively done the work for him.
With the remaining Northern forces eliminated, Robb Stark besieged by the Freys and Stannis, Ramsay could be said to have secured Winterfell completely.
The only question was whether he would cross paths with Stannis again—and when they did, who would emerge the stronger.
After reading the message, Drogon instructed Varys to relay all of this intelligence to Daenerys in Slaver's Bay via the little birds.
With Varys acting as spymaster in King's Landing, there was no excuse for Slaver's Bay to remain blind to Westerosi affairs.
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Returning from King's Landing to the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Drogon didn't see Daenerys at first. Only then did he remember—it was the day the Academy was officially being inaugurated.
They would all be at the smaller pyramid to the east.
As he drew closer, Drogon spotted the large inscription mounted midway up the pyramid—one word written in High Valyrian:
ACADEMY
Colorful banners hung from the structure, rows of lanterns flanked the entrance, and the plaza outside was packed with Meereenese citizens, foreign merchants, and visiting nobles. Security was several times tighter than usual.
The Academy had finally opened its doors.
And Meereen was stepping into a new era.
Drogon had barely flown into the pyramid when Shireen, busy carrying stacks of books, spotted him.
"Drogon, why are you only back now? The academy's opening ceremony is about to begin!" she said happily, stretching out her small hand toward him.
Dressed in luxurious Meereenese finery, Daenerys, who was having Missandei adjust her robes, also heard Shireen's voice and turned to look.
"Ah! Drogon—what happened to you? You're hurt!"
After patting Drogon's back twice, Shireen was about to return to her work when she suddenly noticed a small chunk of flesh missing from his right leg. Dried blood still stained his lower leg and claws.
"Drogon, you're injured?" Daenerys gasped, startled by Shireen's cry, and hurried over.
"Your Grace—here," Shireen said, pointing at Drogon's right leg, her voice filled with distress.
Daenerys froze when she saw the indentation in Drogon's leg. It was clearly gouged out by a sharp weapon. Even a small patch of his dark, glossy scales had been torn away—some scales weren't fully detached, still clinging to his flesh, which spoke volumes about the terrifying sharpness of whatever had wounded him.
"Missandei, go—fetch the healer at once!"
Then, turning back to Drogon, Daenerys asked anxiously, "Where did you go? How did you get hurt?"
The sudden panic in her voice made Tyrion and the others, who had been busy preparing for the ceremony, stop what they were doing and gather around to see what had happened.
It's just a minor injury—does it really warrant this much fuss? Drogon thought helplessly as more than a dozen people crowded around him.
But Daenerys couldn't calm down. She had personally witnessed Drogon darting through hundreds of attackers beneath the pyramid, blades raining down on him without even scratching his scales. His defenses were terrifyingly strong—yet now, a piece of flesh had been forcibly torn from his leg.
Judging from the wound and the surrounding damage to his scales, the weapon had likely only grazed him. If it had struck him head-on, with a body this small, Drogon might have been pierced clean through.
The thought nearly brought tears to Daenerys's eyes. While she had been calmly preparing for the ceremony, she had almost lost him forever.
"Drogon… what hurt you?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Was it Valyrian steel? A scorpion bolt?"
She couldn't imagine anything else capable of injuring him this badly.
Tyrion and Shireen stared at Drogon's leg just as worried. Having seen his terrifying performance amid hundreds of enemies, they too believed only a legendary weapon could have done this.
Seeing Daenerys's eyes welling with tears, Drogon felt a rare flicker of emotion. He nudged her hand gently with his small head and murmured inwardly:
[It wasn't carelessness. He was just… very dangerous.]
"He…?"
Daenerys almost blurted out the question, then caught herself and closed her mouth.
Just then, a healer in his forties came rushing over. The crowd quickly stepped aside to give him space.
The healer crouched down and was about to rinse the wound with water when Daenerys stopped him. Taking a silk cloth from her sleeve, she dampened it herself and gently cleaned the injury, afraid the healer might be too rough.
As she worked, she watched Drogon's reactions closely, worried about hurting him.
When her fingers brushed against his scales, memories surfaced of when Drogon had first hatched—no scales at all back then, his tiny body bare and fragile, like a plucked pigeon.
Now, though still juvenile in size, he was a perfect miniature of an adult dragon. His body was exquisitely refined. Daenerys noticed how unusually dense and sharp the spines along his neck had become.
Even his wings—beyond the wing-hooks—had begun sprouting spikes along every bone, and his tail showed signs of growing long bony barbs as well.
Small, elegant… and terrifyingly beautiful.