114: Chapter 114 The Roots Are Still in the Soil

It was not a resurrection—it was the relic of The Old Gods responding ever so faintly after the energy flow of the Cremation Array had been severed.

That response was not a sound, nor a light, but a faint vibration that traveled from the root carving to the obsidian floor, and then to the soles of Drogon's feet.

A line of extremely faint ancient text appeared on the surface of the root carving, completely different from the blood-red writing of The Mad King.

It was a more ancient language, older than Old Valyria—the final whisper left by The Old Gods when this piece of the root carving was forcibly removed from the godswood.

The script was faint, flickering in the air like a dying firefly.

System pop-up.

"Translation of ancient text: 'The root is still in the soil.' Inference—this is the final response of The Old Gods to the weirwood fragments being used by The Mad King for the Cremation Array. No direct tactical value.

However, after being released, the weirwood root carving will naturally weather over the next few days and will no longer possess any magical properties. This ancient phrase is the same lament of The Old Gods for all the destroyed weirwood trees in the godswood of the North—the same words are carved on the weirwood fragments preserved in the secret vaults of The Citadel."

"The root is still in the soil. The Old Gods have not given up. After thousands of years, they still haven't given up."

He carefully coiled the main fuse and placed it into the dragon glass fragment pouch at his waist—this was both evidence and a reference sample for dismantling the secondary canisters in the future.

The dark green fuse lay quietly among the dragon glass fragments, no longer posing any threat; it was just a cotton wick soaked in wildfire.

Drogon stood up. He pressed his right hand against the inside of the stone door, releasing a thin layer of frost—the frost seeped through the cracks of the door, glowing with a faint blue light in the dim secret passage.

Ice crystals spread along the edges of the stone door like clumps of ghostly blue moss, each one pulsing like a breath.

A few breaths later, the short figure of Tyrion ducked through the stone door.

He first glanced at the smooth surface of the main canister where the blood-red writing had completely vanished—the canister wall was now just a piece of translucent dragon glass, and the dark green wildfire inside was no longer swirling, having turned into a pool of stagnant water.

He then looked at the coiled main fuse in Drogon's hand—that death-dealing vein that once connected fifty-six canisters of wildfire was now just a harmless roll of cotton wick in his palm.

Finally, he looked at the weirwood root carving on the ground, which was weathering at a rate visible to the naked eye—the texture of the root carving was turning white, becoming brittle, and beginning to crumble into fine ash from the edges.

Tyrion tapped the ash in his palm with a crowbar. The sound was very light, but it carried a complex emotion that could not be suppressed.

"The Mad King has been dead for twenty years. Only today can he be considered truly dead. With the main canister deactivated—the remaining fifty-five canisters will automatically lose pressure within twelve hours. By this time tomorrow, the threat of the wildfire buried beneath King's Landing for two hundred years will be completely eliminated.

My father probably won't thank you for this—he was still cursing you last night in Casterly Rock for stealing his gold coins."

"How is your brother? Did he receive the dagger?"

"He received it. He said, 'Next time, tell that tailed thief to come and get it himself; Casterly Rock does not offer free delivery.' Then he tucked the dagger into his belt—that was the spot he specifically reserved for Tyrion. He wears three swords on his belt, and the lightest one is the one I gave him."

Tyrion shouldered the crowbar and prepared to leave the secret room. He paused at the doorway and looked back at the weathering weirwood root carving in the center of the room.

The last fragment of the root carving crumbled into powder under his gaze—it collapsed silently, like a miniature sandcastle being leveled by the wind.

"We cannot stay here long. The residual Ice Element might leave traces on Qyburn's black magic detection array—his array can detect temperature changes of one-thousandth of a degree.

For the next twelve hours—we wait for the secondary canisters to lose pressure. At the same time, we plan the rescue of Sansa for tomorrow night. Let's go."

Four in the morning. Everyone had retreated from the secret passage. The three miners took off their rough leather gloves and, along with Old Tomard, quietly returned to their respective posts along the kitchen corridor—Old Tomard went back to the kitchen to chop onions for the morning shift, his fingers now steady and no longer trembling.

His onion-chopping technique was faster and more even than usual, as if he had become twenty years younger. The miners blended into the grain transport team of the Tyrell Mansion to leave the city; when the grain carts drove out of the city gate, the Gold Cloaks were still yawning and didn't even lift the cart curtains.

Tyrion and Drogon remained at the entrance of the cold cellar.

The ice mist of the cold cellar drifted slowly between the two, and ice crystals swirled in the air.

Tyrion pulled a piece of salt pork wrapped in oilcloth and two slices of hard bread from his robe—a habit he had formed when he was an engineer in the sewers: he had to eat after high-intensity operations, even if it was the worst dry rations. He broke the salt pork into two pieces and handed one to Drogon.

"Qyburn's black magic detection array—according to Varys's intelligence, it is placed on the second basement level of the Red Keep, only forty steps from here. He can detect abnormal temperature fluctuations.

Your Ice Element was released underground for about a quarter of an hour—if Qyburn didn't sleep tonight, he might have already noticed. But the good news is—King's Landing has cooled down recently, and the outdoor temperature tonight is much lower than usual. He might mistake it for a cold snap."

Drogon took a bite of the salt pork. The meat was as hard as a boot sole and as salty as seawater, crunching as he chewed.

"What if he doesn't think it's a cold snap?"

"Then he will send people to patrol the underground of the Red Keep by tomorrow at the latest. We still have twelve hours. If someone investigates the cold cellar tomorrow during the day and discovers the rubble has been moved—Cersei will detonate all the wildfire before Sansa's wedding. Jaime's back door won't save anyone."

"So we need to confirm the secondary canisters have lost pressure tomorrow during the day. The sooner we confirm, the sooner we can have the people from House Tyrell reseal the secret passage of the cold cellar.

Old Tomard said he has a way to make the sealed passage look like it was never opened—he used to build secret passages and knows how to re-lay the old bricks, even keeping the dust in the same position."

Tyrion swallowed the hard bread and tapped the ice wall of the cold cellar lightly with his crowbar. The ice wall gave a dull echo—it was solid.

"Tomorrow at noon. Have Margaery's maid, Ayla, come to the cold cellar under the guise of 'getting frozen fish.'

If the secondary canisters have lost pressure—the weirwood root carving in the main canister secret room will have completely weathered and crumbled into powder. When Ayla sees the powder, she will signal—the chimney of the Tyrell Mansion will emit three colors of smoke during the day: black smoke means danger, white smoke means success, and gray smoke means pending. Only our own people know this code. Tomorrow afternoon, we just need to watch the chimney."

Noon. King's Landing. Tyrell Mansion.

Margaery's maid, Ayla, entered the kitchen cold cellar under the pretext of "getting frozen fish." She was wearing the plain apron of a kitchen maid and carrying an empty fish basket. Following Tyrion's instructions, she entered the secret passage alone—the door to the main canister secret room was still ajar, and a chill seeped through the crack.

She pushed the door open. The oil lamp illuminated everything in the secret room. The main canister had completely lost its luster, and the dragon glass wall had changed from translucent to dull gray—it wasn't covered in dust; the energy inside had completely dissipated. The wildfire inside the canister was no longer swirling, having turned into a pool of still, dark green liquid, like stagnant water.

The weirwood root carving on the floor had crumbled into a pile of grayish-white powder. In the center of the powder, the final strokes of The Old Gods' phrase "The root is still in the soil" were faintly visible—they also dissipated during the weathering, flickered one last time in the lamplight, and then disappeared completely. She took a small pinch of the powder as evidence, put it into a small cloth bag at her waist, exited the secret room, and returned to the Tyrell Mansion.

Just past noon. A column of white smoke rose from the chimney of the Tyrell Mansion. It was particularly striking in the azure winter sky. The white smoke rose straight up and tilted slightly in the sea breeze, like a white finger pointing to the sky.

The smoke was not thick; it was pale, like diluted milk.

None of the residents of Flea Bottom noticed this white smoke.

But Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the roof of the Copper and Bed Brothel, staring in that direction with the telescope Jaime had given him. The telescope was Braavosi goods, and the lens had a slight blue tint. When the white smoke rose, he lowered the telescope.

A complex smile appeared on the corner of his mouth—a smile of having completed an impossible task, and also a smile for having to continue and complete another impossible task.

"White smoke. The secondary canisters have lost pressure. Fifty-five canisters of wildfire will all turn into dead liquid within the next few hours. King's Landing is saved. You are saved."

Drogon sat on the other side of the roof, leaning against the chimney. His dark brown round pupils in his fully human form squinted in the sunlight, and the sunlight cast the slanted shadow of the chimney across his face.

"It was everyone who saved it. The miners, Old Tomard, your brother, Margaery, Ayla. And that lioness who meditated all night on Dragonstone. Now—tell me, has Jaime's letter arrived tonight?"

As if in response to his question, a gray-feathered raven flew in from the west, its wings shimmering with a grayish-blue luster in the sunlight. It folded its wings and landed on Tyrion's knee, its claws hooking into his trouser leg—not tearing it, but just catching into the fabric weave.

A letter tube was tied to the raven's leg, sealed with the red wax of House Lannister, and stamped with the lion sigil.

Tyrion opened the letter, glanced at it, and handed it to him.

Jaime's letter:

"Two o'clock in the dead of night. The back door of the Red Keep will be unattended—I have temporarily adjusted the guard shift change time to exactly two o'clock; the captain of the Gold Cloaks taking over owes me his life.

He won't ask questions, and he won't look too closely. Sansa is locked in the easternmost room on the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast. There are rose bushes under the window. The last time she fled her wedding, she climbed out of that window.

The rose bushes tore her dress—if she climbs out this time, prepare a thicker cloak for her. The sea breeze in King's Landing is very cold in the middle of the night. Also: don't tell Father I opened the back door again. His wine cup hasn't been replaced yet." —Jaime.

Tyrion folded the letter. A warmth flashed in his deep green eyes that he did not want to admit but that Drogon could capture through intuition—not gratitude, but that kind of brotherly love, repeatedly confirmed, of "he really helped me again."

He tucked the letter into his inner coat pocket, his movements very light, as if afraid of creasing the paper.

"Two o'clock in the dead of night. East window of Maegor's Holdfast. I need a thick cloak—the rose bushes haven't changed, the window hasn't changed, and even the Gold Cloaks captain is the same one who owes him his life. The last captain owed him a gambling debt; I wonder what this one owes."

"Have Margaery prepare the cloak. House Tyrell has stocks of Highgarden wool. Tonight, in the dead of night—you wait for her under the rose bushes. I will be waiting thirty paces outside the back door of the Red Keep. Are there Gold Cloaks outside the back door?"

"Yes. But there is a two-minute vacuum during the back door shift change. The previous wave leaves, the next wave arrives, and there is no one on guard for two minutes in between. Jaime created those two minutes for us—he compressed the shift change time from a quarter of an hour to two minutes. We need to get Sansa from the back door into the cellar of the Tyrell Mansion within two minutes. On the way from the back door to the cellar—you are the only security."

"That's enough. I can handle ten Gold Cloaks in my fully human form. Two minutes to run with one person is more than enough."