105: Chapter 105 Ruins

The ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor.

A few months ago, this place was still the highest holy site of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros. In the morning light, the seven-pointed star stained-glass windows would cast seven-colored spots of light—shards of radiance from rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, topazes, mother-of-pearl, and obsidian scattered across the prayer pews.

Now, only a heap of scorched rubble remains.

The bricks and stones where the wildfire burned have turned brittle, crunching underfoot with a rasping sound.

The statue of the Father lies tilted in the rubble, its neck broken; the stone head has rolled to the side, rainwater pooling in its eye sockets.

Fragments of the seven-pointed star stained-glass windows are scattered everywhere, reflecting cruel, colorful light in the setting sun—red, blue, gold, green, purple—each piece shattered by the explosion.

Drogon slipped silently into the ruins through a fissure on the north side.

In full human form.

On his back was wrapped the Lion Claw armor; in the leather pouch at his waist were raw pigeon-blood rubies and sapphires; and tucked against his chest was the final draft of the Cremation Array schematics, hand-drawn by Jaime.

A grey-feathered raven delivered it to the Tyrell Mansion early this morning, a full half-day ahead of the promised two days.

When he unfolded the blueprints, the charcoal lines still carried the scent of sea salt from the towers of Casterly Rock—Jaime likely hadn't slept all night, tying the scroll to the raven's leg as soon as he finished the final stroke.

He chose the remains of a side hall, north of the center of the ruins, as the meeting place.

With three sides of broken walls and the only entrance being the ruined archway to the south, anyone approaching would be spotted from thirty paces away.

He placed the Lion Claw armor by his feet and leaned his back against a half-section of a scorched marble column.

Traces of a seven-pointed star relief could still be seen on the pillar—it was the Father's right hand, two of its fingers blown off.

System pop-up.

"Meeting location safety assessment: wide field of vision, three escape routes—the north fissure, the west crypt entrance, and the collapsed remains of the eastern bell tower stairs.

The Queen of Thorns is expected to arrive accompanied by Margaery Tyrell, possibly with two personal guards in tow.

Varys has not yet confirmed his attendance—Tyrion said he 'might come on his own'.

Suggest the host be prepared for the possibility that only the Queen of Thorns attends."

"Whether Varys comes or not is irrelevant.

The key is the Queen of Thorns.

Tyrion said she has been hedging her bets since the time of Robert's Rebellion and has never lost.

For today's meeting—she has likely already calculated three versions of the maximum benefits House Tyrell could secure after the war.

One version where the lions die, one where the dragon wins, and one where both sides are crippled.

In every version, House Tyrell does not lose."

He had just settled his back against the pillar.

When the sound of a cane tapping the ground came from the shadows of the southern archway.

It wasn't a sharp click, but the muffled thud of a sandalwood cane with an iron ferrule striking the rubble.

One tap. Two taps. Three taps.

The rhythm was not fast, but each step was placed with extreme stability, as if measuring the ruins.

An old woman slowly emerged from the shadows.

She was about seventy years old, her silver hair styled into an intricate Highgarden-style bun.

A simple golden hairpin was stuck into the bun, topped with a tiny golden rose.

She wore a deep green velvet gown, with a shawl embroidered with golden rose threads draped over her shoulders.

Every rose on the shawl was embroidered with real gold thread—the layers of the petals stitched at least five levels deep.

Her face was full of wrinkles, but those eyes—a deep brown with a hint of cold green sharpness—were clear of any cloudiness.

Those were not the eyes of an old woman.

They were the eyes of a hawk.

The kind of hawk that has circled the hunting grounds for seventy years, having seen through every feint of its prey.

Behind her followed Margaery Tyrell, along with two House Tyrell guards dressed in plain clothes, yet whose steps were as steady as soldiers.

Margaery held a small pot of golden roses in her arms—a token of Highgarden, and a habit her grandmother insisted upon placing before her during every negotiation.

The golden roses glowed with a soft, warm light in the setting sun, with a very fine deep red trim along the edges of the petals.

Olenna poked the rubble-strewn ground three times with her cane.

The guards retreated outside the archway.

She walked up to Drogon and did not sit down—there were no chairs in the ruins.

She simply struck her cane against the ground and looked up at the black-haired young man who stood a head taller than her.

She only reached his chest in height, but her presence rendered that difference meaningless.

Her voice was raspy and clear, every word like wine poured from an aged oak barrel—thick, strong, and undiluted.

"So you are that dragon.

Margaery said you shifted a tail for her to see in the Dragonpit.

I didn't see the tail.

Prove it to me."

Drogon was silent for a moment.

His deep brown pupils dilated slightly under the suppression of his full human form—but before he could voluntarily lift the suppression, his tail sprang out on its own.

It didn't extend slowly; it sprang out.

As if frightened by the old woman's command and not daring to disobey.

The tail lashed stiffly behind him, the tip slightly curled, the bone spurs gleaming with a ghostly blue cold light in the setting sun.

Olenna stared at the tail for a full three seconds.

Then she nodded.

Her tone was like someone at a market confirming if a fish was fresh.

"Hmm.

It's real.

Pull it back in.

You cannot go exposing this on the streets of King's Landing.

The Gold Cloaks may be stupid, but they will still report it if they see a tail."

She sat down on a piece of rubble that Margaery had moved for her.

Placing her cane horizontally across her knees.

Her fingers tapped lightly on the sandalwood surface of the cane; with every knock of her knuckles, the sandalwood emitted a dull echo.

"Margaery said you need House Tyrell to help you dismantle the wildfire, help you hide, help you transport your treasury, and in the future, help you open the city gates.

She also asked for a condition on your behalf—that House Tyrell retains the Warden of the South title after the war.

I agree to all these terms.

But it is not enough."

"The 'not enough' of the Queen of Thorns—means you want to raise the stakes."

"It is not raising the stakes.

It is telling you a fact.

House Tyrell is helping you—not because you have a dragon, not because Daenerys Targaryen is a Targaryen.

It is because Cersei blew up my grandson, my nephew, and my faith."

She tapped her fingers on the ground of the ruins.

Her knuckles struck the scorched rubble, making a dull, light sound—thud, thud, thud.

Each knock felt like she was rapping with her knuckles on a door that would never open again.

"The place where you are standing now, a few months ago, was where Loras Tyrell lay.

He was just seventeen years old when he was burned to death by wildfire.

My son's eldest son.

The most beautiful and the most capable fighter among three generations of House Tyrell.

He could ride a horse and jump over the nine-layered rose hedges of Highgarden with his eyes closed; he could wield a sword and force the Knight of Flowers himself back three steps within ten moves.

In order to get rid of the High Sparrow, Cersei buried him as well.

I stood in front of these ruins for an entire night; that night, I swore to both The Old Gods and the New—no matter who it is,

As long as they can drag Cersei off the iron throne, House Tyrell will help them.

Your mother wants to sit on the iron throne, that is fine.

But Cersei Lannister—must die by my rose."

When she said the last sentence, her voice did not rise, but every word felt like a rose thorn piercing into the rubble.

Her fingers slowly traced across the scorched marble fragments, leaving a shallow, white scratch.

Margaery stood behind her, her deep brown eyes lowered, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Loras was her brother.

She showed no change in expression when her grandmother mentioned his name—not because she wasn't sad, but because she had already ground that sadness into something else over countless nights.

Ground into the bargaining chips for tonight's negotiation.

Drogon's tail drew a circle extremely slowly behind him.

He looked down at this silver-haired old woman.

She was not here to negotiate for profit.

Profit was her means, not her motive.

Her motive was revenge.

This caused him to revise his judgment of her from "shrewd politician" to "extremely dangerous avenger"—but also controllable.

An avenger is more predictable than a merchant.

A merchant will turn at any moment for a better price, but an avenger, as long as the goal is aligned, will not betray.

"Loras Tyrell.

I have heard his name in Meereen.

He was of the Rainbow Guard of Renly Baratheon.

After Renly died, he should have returned to Highgarden, but he came to King's Landing."

"He came to King's Landing to seek justice for his dead king.

He thought the High Sparrow could help him.

But the High Sparrow used him to push Cersei to a dead end—and then Cersei blew everyone up.

wildfire.

wildfire again.

The green flame invented by your House Targaryen, used by the mad woman of House Lannister to blow up my grandson."

Olenna's deep brown eyes stared straight at Drogon.

The sharpness in those eyes could almost pin a person to the wall—like two steel needles that had just been quenched in fire.

Drogon did not avoid her gaze.

"So you sought us out.

Not because the Targaryens have dragons.

It is because you know—only we can dismantle it before the wildfire explodes."

"And also because you hate the Lannisters.

Hated them for twenty years.

Hate is more reliable than profit.

Profit can be renegotiated, hate cannot."