This world was advanced enough to produce stargazing lenses. Graduated cylinders and beakers were standard tools for scholars. The technology to make thermometers had long been available.
So when Dany needed one, she only had to ask the glassmakers to experiment a few times before they created a highly accurate mercury thermometer.
In fact, not long after taking Astapor, she had already "invented" the thermometer.
Because she knew the Long Night was coming, and she needed to know exactly when.
She ordered scholars to record temperatures for every hour of the day and plot them on a graph with time on the x-axis and temperature on the y-axis. With 24 curves, they could roughly deduce temperature trends.
If the data showed a linear decline, she could even "predict" the coming of the Long Night—when the lowest temperature dropped below zero.
It was a perfect plan.
Unfortunately, the temperature recording group had been active for two years, and the 24 curves barely fluctuated along a horizontal line—indicating almost no temperature change in Slaver's Bay.
Still, it wasn't entirely pointless. Over the past two months, the lowest temperatures had steadily declined.
Just one issue: at the current rate, it would still take another two years before Slaver's Bay saw its first snowfall.
Yes, in the thousands of years prior, Slaver's Bay had never seen snow.
As for the "Draconian degree scale"—
In our world, temperature is measured in Celsius because the scientist who established the standard was named Celsius.
Obviously, Dany had no reason to use "Celsius" in this world. Just explaining who "Celsius" was would drive her crazy.
Setting the scale was simple: the freezing point of water was 0 degrees, and boiling water was 100.
"BOOOM!"
About half an hour later, the second ball of green fire erupted. Once again, it was a glass bottle that exploded—this one had been placed on the red brick steps, half-filled with wildfire.
"28 degrees Draconian. No violent shaking, but it was exposed to direct sunlight."
The third explosion came from a shaken clay pot, also half-filled with wildfire. Temperature: 30 degrees.
The fourth was another clay pot on stone steps, also half-filled. Temperature: 39 degrees.
"Good. The critical temperature is 39 degrees, and the highest temperature in the cellar is only 31 Draconian degrees," said Mage Wood with relief.
"Heh. Thirty-nine degrees—that's practically human body temperature. It won't explode when no one's in the cellar. But if a mage stays down there too long..." Tyrion sneered.
"Are you stupid? Just hang a thermometer on the wall. Stop all wildfire production once the temperature hits 25. Evacuate everyone if it nears 30. What danger?" Dany said.
No danger? Then why don't you be the so-called 'Wildfire General'?
Damn it, "Wildfire General"—even the title sounds terrifying. Probably the most dangerous position in the history of human kingdoms!
Tyrion glanced at the Dragon Queen from the corner of his eye, silently cursing in his heart.
At this point, only full jars of wildfire remained—sealed, with no contact with oxygen: two clay pots and two glass bottles. One clay pot and one glass bottle were still being shaken, while the other two sat quietly on the red brick steps.
The glass bottles were under direct sunlight, while the clay pots were shaded. Still, no explosions occurred.
"It's past noon—now 2:30 in the afternoon, likely the hottest part of the day. Outdoor temperature is 39 Draconian degrees, indoors 30, ground temperature 45, and the wildfire is still stable," Bogba shouted in delight.
"Ah! We've finally found the perfect way to transport wildfire!" the other fire mages exclaimed excitedly.
"So sealing it from air really works. Wildfire could actually be used on a large scale in the war with the allied forces," Tyrion said in shock and wonder.
"Of course," Dany said coolly, her tone laced with pride. "Wildfire is just a type of fuel. All fuels need air to burn."
With that, she stood up, clapped her hands, and said, "The testing is complete. Let's return to the city and celebrate—"
"BOOO—BOOOOOO—BOOOOOOOOO—BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
It was like a Tomahawk cruise missile detonated right beside them—no, not one, but four in quick succession.
The workshop was over 30 meters away from the nearest glass bottle, but the resulting shockwave blew the roof tiles off with a crash and sent everyone tumbling in all directions.
Even their silk robes burst apart under the pressure wave.
Especially Tyrion—his twisted legs gave him no stability, and he rolled across the ground like a ball.
His black dragon T-shirt, a symbol of his high rank, was now in tatters. His loose silk trousers were missing entirely, revealing two hairy, disproportionate short legs.
Even Ser Mormont, a burly man clad in full armor, had his cloak torn and was forced to take three steps back, catching the stumbling Maester Aemon in his gray robes.
But the Dragon Queen—her performance stunned everyone.
The violent blast of air split and flowed around her like a river parting around a rock.
Aside from her hair billowing wildly, she remained unmoved—wearing only light leather and chainmail, standing firm in the face of the storm.
"This isn't scientific!"
Tyrion, lying atop one of the fire mages, heard the Dragon Queen's furious and incredulous shout.
He had no idea what "scientific" even meant. All he wanted to do was scream: I quit! Let the White Walkers take over this damn 'Wildfire General' position!
"No oxygen—how can it burn? There's no magic either! There were no violent magical surges in the sunlight. So why did it suddenly explode?"
The Dragon Queen's voice grew fainter as she dashed toward the blast center.
Amid the eerie green flames, two young fire mages were still struggling inside!
Tyrion tried to roll over, but someone was pinned beneath him, and someone else was on top of him. People were pressing in on both sides. He couldn't move at all.
As consciousness returned and his nerves regained sensitivity, his skin began to register sensations more clearly.
Then his wriggling body suddenly froze.
—Little Tyrion was being held in someone's hand!
There were only two women present: the Dragon Queen and her mage apprentice. The Queen had run off, so...
It had to be that black girl!
Tyrion turned his head expectantly, but in the next moment, it felt as if a basin of ice water had been poured over his chest—cold to the bone. His whole body squirmed with discomfort, as though crawling with caterpillars.
He didn't see the darkened face of the short-haired Larraza. What he saw was a weathered face with eyes tightly shut and deep crow's feet at the corners.
Jon Connington!
Of course. He had always stood with Connington and young Aegon—far away from the black-haired girl.
"Hey, hey, Ser! Ser Connington! Wake up!" Tyrion flushed red as he struggled, twisting with all his might until he finally freed himself from the man's rough hand.
Aegon, who had been lying atop Tyrion, turned his head at the shout and saw blood streaming from the back of Connington's head.
Did he hit it on a brick?
"Ser! Father! Ser Connington! Father!" Aegon cried out in panic.
"Mm..." Connington, a true tough man, soon groggily opened his eyes.
Suddenly, he felt a warm sensation in his right hand. The confusion in his eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by shock and urgency.
"Don't squeeze! Don't squeeze! Ser, it's me!" Tyrion shrieked.
"Seven hells!" Connington yelled in horror and instantly yanked his right hand out from the pile of limbs.
Sure enough, the deerskin glove that he always wore was gone.
"Ow! Get off me—you're crushing me!" came a groan from beneath Tyrion, from the skinny man, Pogba.
"Oh!" Aegon sprang up in alarm, hurrying to help his adoptive father up—
"Leave me," Connington recoiled as if avoiding the plague, swiftly pulling his right hand away from his adoptive son's grasp.
He struggled upright, spotted the fallen glove nearby, and stumbled toward it. Picking it up, he quickly put it back on.
"Damn it! My clothes are ruined," Tyrion moaned, clutching his crotch.
He was actually one of the luckier ones—his T-shirt was just torn in a few places, and his baggy silk pants still had some fabric left clinging to him, covering his shame.
Several of the red priests in their flowing robes were completely naked—not a stitch of clothing remained.
The blast had been far too powerful. Other than Jorah Mormont in full armor, and Connington and Aegon in light leather armor, almost no one's clothes were intact.
"Seven above... the wildfire blast was this powerful?!" Aemon said in terror, his robes in tatters.
Fortunately, Jorah Mormont had shielded him, absorbing most of the impact. Without that, the old man wouldn't have fared well.
Looking around at the half-blown-off roof tiles, the chaos of people and horses, and then at the searing green flames dozens of meters away—there was no sign of the Dragon Queen.
Tyrion shuddered violently and rasped, "All four jars exploded at once. Each jar was full—at least eight pounds of wildfire each. That's thirty-two pounds total... and they've been sitting in the sun all this time. Damn it!
I should've thought of this. Back in King's Landing, the alchemists always warned me not to throw more than ten pounds of wildfire at a time.
I once packed three hundred pounds of wildfire onto a small boat. From just a dozen meters away, it overturned two of Stannis's warships and ignited a river hundreds of meters wide."
"Look! The fire—it's going out!" Aegon shouted in surprise.
"Wildfire doesn't go out. It can't be extinguished..." Tyrion said uncertainly. Yet the sea of green flame, stretching dozens of meters, was visibly fading.
"It's the Queen!" Archmage Wood cried out. "The Queen's in the fire—she's controlling the flames!"
"What? The wildfire was so fierce—can it really be controlled?"
The mages were stunned and couldn't help but step closer.
Earlier, the green flames had soared four or five meters high, blocking everyone's view. But now, like water being drained from a pool, the unruly wildfire flowed back—gathering into the Dragon Queen's right hand.
The fire steadily lowered, and the crowd saw Daenerys's calm expression, her right hand raised.
Like a female Moses parting the sea, the strange green fire receded wherever she passed.
Threads of green flame peeled away and merged into a basketball-sized fireball in her raised hand.
"Quick! I need a few well-dressed men—get Archmage Tim and Archmage Duncan out of there," Daenerys commanded.
Even rooftops dozens of meters away had been blown off. The earthen firebreak walls had crumbled completely.
The two fire mages who had been hiding behind the wall to pull the detonation rope were now buried under shattered bricks, some still burning with green wildfire on their armor.
If Daenerys hadn't arrived in time, they likely would've been reduced to ash.
As it was, though they hadn't been burned alive, they had suffered internal injuries from the explosion and were coughing up blood.
Archmage Wood, holding up his underwear, approached with reverence and asked, "Your Majesty, your power is boundless. Even such wild wildfire bows to your command. Is there a secret to it?"
"Save the wounded first. In a few days, I'll hold a lecture on fire magic and teach you the true essence of flamecraft," Daenerys said with the poise of a true queen.
"Your Majesty, may I learn too?"
Tyrion heard this from afar and was about to rush over to ask—only to be grabbed by Connington.
"Wait. Let me see your little fellow," he said seriously.
(End of Chapter)
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