Chapter 21 — The Spy in the Castle
Shireen knew rifling through someone else's belongings was improper — yet curiosity tugged at her too strongly.
Since Drogon had given permission, she gently opened the backpack.
Inside she found a bundle of dried grass, then a gray-white firestone, and at the very bottom a small pile of gold and silver coins.
"You… you know how to make fire?"
She lifted the flint and asked in astonishment.
Drogon nodded.
"These coins are strange… I've never seen them before. Do you… spend money?"
Drogon hooked a wing tip toward his own mouth — stuffing food in.
"Ah! So you use it to buy food?"
Shireen's eyes widened. With that many coins, one could buy mountains of delicious things.
"Oh— I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Shireen Baratheon. What's your name?"
Drogon, of course, could only stare back silently.
"You really can't talk… what a shame," she sighed to herself.
After putting the flint back into the pack, Drogon slipped the straps over his neck, stepped onto the windowsill, and glanced toward the sky.
He had to leave.
"You're going already?"
The disappointment in Shireen's voice was soft but unmistakable.
Drogon raised a wing in a little wave.
"C-could I… touch you? Just once?"
He paused — then nodded.
Shireen reached out, her small fingers trembling, and gently brushed the smooth black scales on his back.
Then she touched the crimson membrane of his wings, reverent as if she were touching a relic of the gods.
Only when she pulled her hand back did she look satisfied.
Drogon lingered a moment, then beat his wings and rose.
Shireen stood on tiptoe and leaned half out of the window, trying to glimpse him once more.
That was when she noticed — he wasn't leaving.
He was flying upward, toward a higher tower.
Shireen frowned in confusion.
What was he going to do?
—
At the tower's height, Drogon's eyes shone.
There — a wide open terrace, supported by pillars, with a large chamber beyond.
Perfect.
He tucked himself against a protruding stone ledge and listened for sounds.
Silence.
He crept forward and peeked inside.
A massive wooden table in the shape of Westeros dominated the center of the room, mountains and rivers carved with exquisite detail, the borders marked with runes and a precise scale.
Miniature figurines — wolves, lions, stags, dragons — stood where the major houses ruled.
It was even more vivid than the sand table in his memories.
Drogon flew inside cautiously and scanned the hallway one last time before turning to the map.
He located Dragonstone, then the island beside it — so the land he saw earlier had been Driftmark.
He found King's Landing — southwest of Dragonstone, beside Blackwater Bay.
Piece by piece he cross-checked what he remembered.
As a dragon, he carried not only inherited combat instincts, but also knowledge of language and writing — and an ironclad memory.
In less than ten minutes he had memorized most of the table.
Just as he prepared to examine the scale again, footsteps approached — quickening from distant to near.
Drogon shot out of the tower room and flattened himself against the terrace wall.
"I swear I heard something," a sultry female voice said as a woman in a crimson robe entered. Her eyes fell on a carved stag figure that was still faintly swaying.
"There's no one here. Likely a seabird," a man replied, dismissive.
But the woman was not convinced. She stepped to the edge of the terrace — her head inches from where Drogon hid behind stone — and peered down.
Seeing nothing, she finally turned back toward the great table.
"My king," she said, "I must leave for a while. When I return, I will serve you again."
"You would abandon me to seek a greater master?" the man growled — anger and wounded pride tangled in his voice.
Drogon recognized them instantly — Stannis Baratheon and the Red Priestess, Melisandre.
Melisandre's voice softened, dark and seductive:
"You are the chosen of the Lord of Light. Why would I forsake you?
But your power alone is not enough to win this war. I must go — to seek a way to strengthen you. When I return, you will rise renewed."
Her gaze swept across the map — hungry, fevered.
"And one day, everything marked here will be your kingdom."
Stannis stared into the Red Woman's eyes, trying to read truth or betrayal in their depths.
Melisandre merely held his gaze, lips curving faintly, calm as still water.
At last, he yielded.
His shoulders slumped, his eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss her smooth cheek — breathing her in as if trying to trap her scent inside his memory.
Silence lingered.
Then footsteps — slow at first, then fading into the distance.
---
Drogon knew perfectly well Melisandre would never abandon Stannis.
If she was leaving Dragonstone, it could only mean one thing:
She was going to seek King Robert's bastard sons — to steal their love, drain their blood, and use them as conduits for the curse that would kill the "Three False Kings."
A lurid and terrible ritual was about to unfold.
This time, Drogon would not be there to witness it.
He no longer needed the map.
He would learn the land of Westeros by wing and flame — by flying it, not memorizing it.
With the shape of the world already burned into his mind, Drogon dug his claws into the stone, launched himself from the castle wall, and powered westward toward King's Landing.
—
THUMP–THUMP–THUMP!
The moment he vanished into the clouds, Melisandre burst back into the map room, racing toward the terrace.
She craned her neck upward, staring after the shrinking black speck.
"What happened?" Stannis demanded, following her inside with a scowl.
"It was here," she said coldly. "I know it. Something entered this chamber."
"Probably a seabird."
Stannis waved the concern away.
"That was no seabird. Sea-birds don't move that fast. And… I saw red light on its body."
Stannis's eyes narrowed.
"Could it be… a skinchanger?"
"Perhaps." Her voice grew heavy with meaning. "I need a sign — a revelation."
Stannis stiffened. He knew what that meant.
"Bring one Dark Servant to the square," he ordered the guards.
Melisandre's eyes flashed.
"One will not suffice. I felt great power in that red light. Bring three."
---
A short time later, on the stone clearing near the beach,
three battered men were tied to three wooden crosses, firewood piled high at their feet.
The wind howled.
Melisandre stood before them like a high priestess of judgment, her crimson robe snapping in the salt air.
She closed her eyes, whispered her prayers, then motioned for three guards to ignite the pyres.
Flames roared to life.
Screams tore across the shore — raw, animal, unending.
Soldiers nearby flinched and turned away.
Stannis did not move.
Melisandre did not blink.
She stared into the inferno, muttering faster and faster, waiting for a vision.
Waiting for the Lord of Light to speak.
Nothing happened.
The flames continued to climb — no symbols, no figures, no whispers.
Her lips tightened.
Perhaps this sacrifice had—
ROOOOAAAAAR!!!
A colossal black dragon's head erupted from the fire — fangs bared, eyes burning like molten gold — and lunged straight at her.
"AH!"
Melisandre shrieked, stumbling back.
Blood sprayed from her lips as she crumpled onto the sand.
Stannis rushed forward, catching her before she collapsed.
"It… it was a dragon," she gasped weakly. "A black dragon…"
Then she fell unconscious.
---
At that exact moment, far across the Narrow Sea, Drogon faltered in mid-air.
A cold sensation had rippled across his scales — as if someone had been looking through his eyes.
He slowed, scanned the skies, tilted his wings to search the sea below.
Nothing.
"Strange," he muttered inwardly.
With a twitch of his wings, he surged forward again — toward King's Landing, toward destiny.