101: Chapter 101 The Golden Hand in the Tower

Late night. Casterly Rock. Jaime Lannister's tower room.

It was not a luxurious room.

Worn Lannister red and gold tapestries hung on the stone walls, their edges frayed, and the golden lion on them was so dull that only the outline remained.

The fire in the fireplace had burned down to embers, occasionally popping with a spark. Outside the window was a cliff, with waves roaring at the base.

Jaime Lannister sat on an oak chair in front of the fireplace. His left hand held a glass of red wine that was barely touched, the liquid having already gone cold. His right hand—that golden hand—rested on the chair's armrest, reflecting the dim light of the hearth.

The golden fingers were polished smooth, but there was a ring of old callouses worn around the wrist joint.

On the low table in front of him lay an unsheathed longsword; the blade had been wiped with an oilcloth but had not yet been returned to its scabbard.

Leaning against the corner of the table was an old dagger engraved with the letters "TL"; its scabbard was undone, as if ready to be taken.

The leather of the dagger's scabbard was cracked, but the blade shimmered in the firelight with the distinctive dark ripples of valyrian steel.

He heard the sound of the wind outside the window.

It was not the wind. It was an air pressure heavier and more rhythmic than the wind.

Each beat carried the low whistle of wingtips slicing through the airflow—the distinct sound waves of dragon wings with a span of dozens of meters flapping in the night sky.

He did not panic. He set the wine glass on the low table and gripped the hilt of the unsheathed longsword with his left hand.

Then he spoke, his voice calm, as if greeting a late guest.

"The window isn't locked. Tyrion said you could fly, though I wasn't sure what that meant. But since you are a dragon—you shouldn't need to knock."

Drogon crouched on the extremely narrow stone windowsill in his dragon-man form.

He folded his wings, holding onto the edge of the window frame with only one hand, his body suspended in the night sky above the cliff.

His dark golden slit pupils shimmered in the darkness, echoing the embers in Jaime's fireplace.

His dark night-traveling robe was filled with the sea breeze, flapping loudly. His tail balanced him from behind, the tip slightly pressed down—the instinct of a feline lowering its center of gravity before a leap.

The sea breeze tousled his black hair, and between the strands, one could see his dark golden pupils unblinking in the darkness.

Jaime raised his longsword, the tip pointing toward the window.

His emerald eyes swept over the visitor's slit pupils, the fine dark golden scales covering his forearms, and the tail slowly swaying in the night sky.

Then he placed the sword on the table, very gently, the blade making a faint clinking sound as it touched the surface.

It was not because he had let his guard down. It was because if the visitor had come to kill him, they could have breathed Dragon Breath from outside the window just a moment ago. The tower room was too narrow; if Dragon Breath were unleashed, he would have nowhere to hide.

"Tyrion said your 'teeth were very white'—he didn't mention you also grew scales. Come in. Don't hang outside the window."

"If the night watchmen see you, I won't be able to explain why there is a dragon perched on my window."

Drogon flipped into the room. His dragon wings spread slightly in the narrow space, the tips almost touching the walls on either side, before quickly folding back.

He stood before the fireplace, his tail flicking lightly against the stone floor, sweeping up a small cloud of dust.

He looked around the room—the sword, the golden hand, the dagger engraved with TL on the low table. Then his slit pupils rested on Jaime's face, his voice deeper than usual, the natural guttural resonance of his dragon-man form.

"Tyrion wrote you a letter. You received it."

"I received it. And I also received his extra request—to find an old dagger in the armory. It was a sword I gave him when he was fifteen, and later, when he was exiled by his father to the sewers of King's Landing to fix the drainage pipes, the sword was confiscated by the Gold Cloaks. He has remembered it for so many years."

He pointed to the dagger on the low table.

"It is ready. Take it when you leave."

Jaime sat back down in his chair. He did not invite Drogon to sit—there was only one chair in the room.

He moved his golden hand from the armrest and used his left hand to rub the old callouses on his severed wrist worn by the golden hand. The golden hand rested on the armrest, the firelight casting dark red shadows on its surface.

His voice changed when he spoke of The Mad King. It was not fear.

It was a kind of exhaustion that had been suppressed for twenty years, scabbed over but never truly healed. Like an old wound aching on a rainy day.

"The day The Mad King died, it was raining in King's Landing. Robert's rebel army had already breached the city gates, and he was standing in the iron throne hall, telling me to bring him Tywin Lannister's head."

"I didn't go. I went to find Rossart—his pyromancer, the master of wildfire. Rossart told me that The Mad King had ordered the last batch of wildfire jars to be buried beneath the Red Keep three days prior, fifty-six jars in total, arranged in an Old Valyria Cremation Array."

"I asked Rossart where the main jar was—he refused to say. I killed him."

He paused. He grasped the wrist of his golden hand with his left hand, his knuckles turning slightly white. An ember in the fireplace collapsed, splashing a few sparks.

"Then I went to the iron throne hall. The Mad King was already sitting on the iron throne. Seeing me return alone, he started to laugh."

His tone changed abruptly. It rose sharply, filled with a feverish excitement and a shattered hoarseness.

That was not his own voice; it was The Mad King's final roar, which he had recalled and simulated repeatedly for twenty years, and had never spoken in full to anyone.

" 'Jaime! Jaime! Jaime! Do you think killing the pyromancer will stop it! The main jar is in the Dragonpit!' "

" 'The main jar is in the center of the Dragonpit ruins! Directly beneath the heart of the first dragon Aegon I buried! Dragon heart ignites dragon fire—the Cremation Array is the heart of the dragon! You cannot kill fire! You can only ignite it! Burn them all! Burn them all!' "

He stopped. Another ember in the fireplace collapsed. The flame jumped, then dimmed. He grasped the wrist of his golden hand with his left hand—an unconscious habit when he was nervous, as if to confirm whether the prosthetic hand was still there.

His emerald eyes stared into Drogon's slit pupils, without any evasion.

"After he finished that sentence—Burn them all—I drove my sword into his back."

"He was still laughing when he died. It has been twenty years. Every time I smell the burnt scent of wildfire in the corridors of the Red Keep—that sweet, cloying smell like rotting honey—I am reminded of that last laugh of his. I didn't save King's Landing. I only killed the person who would have lit the fire ahead of time."

Drogon's slit pupils narrowed slightly. He traced the structure of the Dragonpit ruins in his mind—he had absorbed relics there and had meditated while crouching on the base of the dragon crystal pillar.

In the center of the Dragonpit was the wreckage of a giant dragon crystal pillar base; he had personally touched the obsidian textures fused by Dragon Breath. The Mad King said the main jar was in the center of the Dragonpit, directly beneath the heart of the first dragon Aegon I buried—which meant the main jar was buried in a deeper layer directly beneath the dragon crystal pillar base.

The tip of his tail drew a coordinate map on the floor. The outline of the Dragonpit. The position of the dragon crystal pillar base. A question mark was marked beneath the base.

"The dragon crystal pillar base in the center of the Dragonpit. I have stayed there. I didn't notice there was space beneath the base."

"The Mad King may have sealed another layer beneath the base. His Cremation Array referenced the funeral norms of Old Valyria—'Dragon heart ignites dragon fire.' When dragon lords died, they were buried in the Dragonpit, and the dragon's heart was buried in the center of the Dragonpit, with wildfire extending outward from the heart's position. The main jar is buried at the deepest point. Break the main jar, and the entire array will automatically fail."