Chapter 175 — The Wrong Person?
In King's Landing, Cersei Lannister had just finished a Small Council meeting. Drinks had barely been poured when a report came rushing in—
Daenerys's dragon was flying toward the city.
Cersei shot to her feet.
"Prepare the scorpions! Bring them all to bear!" she snapped, immediately ordering her men to ready the defenses. At the same time, she sent for Kevan Lannister to organize a full defensive response, in case this was the prelude to an attack.
In the days after Daenerys arrived at Dragonstone, Cersei had lived in constant anxiety. Only when it became clear that Daenerys wasn't marching on the capital immediately had she begun to relax.
Then Qyburn perfected the scorpion.
That had finally let her sleep at night.
But the news from Storm's End had shaken that confidence again—the scorpion there hadn't even managed to hit Daenerys's golden dragon.
And that wasn't even the strongest one.
The black dragon—Drogon—was the true monster. Rumor claimed it had once endured volleys from Ghiscari war engines without falling.
If the scorpion couldn't even hit the smaller dragon…
Could it truly stop the black one?
Could it prevent King's Landing from burning?
Cersei had already demanded improvements. But Qyburn had told her plainly—the current design was already at its limit. Unless its core components were forged from Valyrian Steel, there was little room for improvement.
And Valyrian steel was rarer than gold.
Even Tywin Lannister had spent years trying to acquire it—only succeeding after seizing Eddard Stark's greatsword Ice, which he had reforged for Joffrey Baratheon and Jaime Lannister.
With no way to strengthen the weapons further, Cersei had settled on a simpler solution—
Build more of them.
On the city walls, soldiers scrambled into action, ripping covers off the scorpions and frantically adjusting their aim.
But when they finally lined up their shots—
They hesitated.
The dragon was too high.
Far beyond their range.
High above the city, Drogon had already noticed the chaos below. He had briefly considered swooping down—just to give Cersei a proper scare.
But with Shireen Baratheon riding on his back, he decided against it. She wasn't experienced enough—she might panic or lose her grip.
Still…
He could always send Rhaegal and Viserion to make regular "visits."
A little harassment would keep Cersei on edge.
Even from high above, Drogon's massive silhouette cast an oppressive shadow over the city. Soldiers, nobles, and commoners alike stopped what they were doing and stared upward.
From atop the Red Keep, Cersei felt that pressure more keenly than anyone.
For a fleeting moment, she even wondered—
Were the rumors true?
Could that black dragon really withstand siege weapons… and burn cities to ash?
Only when Drogon finally passed overhead and disappeared into the distance did the city breathe again.
Relief spread like a tide.
From Dragonstone to Oldtown was over a thousand kilometers. Flying with pauses along the way, Drogon took nearly five hours to arrive.
He landed before the gates of the Citadel of Oldtown.
Two statues flanked the entrance—human-faced, lion-bodied, serpent-tailed.
Something about them felt… wrong.
Unsettling.
Drogon didn't like it.
Inside, the Citadel was quiet. Nearly empty.
Only one man sat at a desk, writing. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up.
When he saw Shireen, he showed only mild curiosity.
But when his eyes fell on Drogon perched on her shoulder—
He froze.
After a closer look, he asked cautiously, "Is that… a dragon?"
"Yes," Shireen replied calmly.
"Then you must be from Dragonstone," he continued.
"I am Shireen Baratheon," she said. "And yes, I've come from Dragonstone."
The maester frowned slightly.
"Shireen of House Baratheon… what brings you here?"
Shireen glanced at Drogon before answering,
"I'm here to find Sam. Samwell Tarly."
"Sam?" The man paused, then nodded. "Ah—yes, he arrived not long ago. He's working at the moment, so it may not be convenient for him to meet you. But… if you insist, I can take you to him."
His eyes flicked once more toward Drogon.
"Thank you," Shireen said politely, a little surprised by how accommodating he was.
As they followed him deeper into the Citadel, she looked around.
It was nothing like she had imagined.
Not a bustling center of knowledge—
But cold.
Quiet.
Almost empty.
Led by the maester Lareesa, Shireen walked a short distance before turning into a long hall lined with rooms on both sides. At the far end, a heavyset figure was busy at work.
He held a small wooden bucket, pouring its contents into a larger barrel on a cart in front of him.
Lareesa tilted his chin toward the man. "That's Sam."
The moment Drogon caught the smell and saw what the man was doing, he immediately understood—and very nearly turned around to leave on the spot. No wonder Lareesa had hesitated earlier.
Even Shireen Baratheon, who didn't yet grasp what Sam was doing, found the smell in the hall hard to endure.
After pointing him out, Lareesa quietly excused himself and left.
At the far end, the man—Samwell Tarly—had just finished emptying his bucket. Noticing Shireen approaching, he glanced around, puzzled. Seeing no one else, he realized the little girl might actually be looking for him.
His confusion deepened.
Stopping a few steps away—no closer—Shireen spoke politely,
"Are you Samwell Tarly? I'm Shireen Baratheon, from Dragonstone."
As Sam approached, his eyes fell on Drogon perched on her shoulder—and he froze.
He hadn't expected to see Daenerys's most formidable dragon here.
At the Wall, news from across the world gathered like snowdrifts; he had long heard that Drogon could change size at will.
"I—I'm Sam," he stammered after a brief pause.
"I came to ask for your help," Shireen continued. "I want to cure the illness on my face."
Sam blinked in shock.
"Greyscale? I… I don't know how to treat that!" he said helplessly.
He was barely even a novice at the Citadel of Oldtown—little more than a servant handling unpleasant chores. How could he possibly cure a disease widely considered incurable?
He truly couldn't understand why she had come to him.
But Shireen only smiled, as if she had expected this answer all along.
"Just because you don't know how now doesn't mean you never will," she said gently. "I believe you'll find a way."
Sam blinked again.
That sounded less like a request… and more like someone comforting him.
He almost insisted she had the wrong person—but under her unwavering gaze, and with Drogon watching silently beside her, he swallowed those words.
"I… I'll look through the Citadel's medical texts," he said at last. "Maybe I can find something."
"Though… you may have to stay here for a while. Oh—right! You could spend time with Gilly. She's been alone and a bit bored."
"Gilly?" Shireen echoed, glancing at Drogon. She had never heard that name from him before.
Of course, Drogon knew exactly who Gilly was—Sam's partner, with a child of her own.
He gave a small nod, silently approving. At least Shireen wouldn't be lonely while she stayed here.
After making arrangements, Shireen and Drogon stepped outside to wait for Sam.
Not long after, a middle-aged man with a short beard and a heavy iron-linked chain around his neck approached them slowly.