117: Chapter 117 Old Feuds in the Secret Passage

The secret passage beneath King's Landing. Two-thirty in the morning.

The extraction route Tyrion chose was not above ground—with the city under martial law before the wedding, the density of Gold Cloaks patrols on the surface was triple the usual, with double guards on every main street.

He took an abandoned sewer line that he had personally surveyed back when he worked as an engineer in the sewers. This waterway cut diagonally from the base of the Red Keep through Flea Bottom, leading straight to the Street of Steel, entirely underground.

The walls of the waterway were coated in aged limescale, like a layer of yellowed glaze. The air was filled with a damp smell of lime, mixed with the faint scent of coal smoke drifting from a blacksmith's shop far in the distance.

The only drawback was its narrowness—Drogon had to stoop, Tyrion could just barely stand up straight, and Sansa had to keep her head slightly bowed, though her cloak brushed against the grime on the walls several times, picking up streaks of dirt.

Sansa suddenly stopped. She crouched down, gathered the hem of her cloak, and retied her bootlaces.

Her fingers wrapped around the laces twice, pulled them tight, and tied a knot—a sailor's knot, which she had learned from an old shipwright back in Winterfell. Tyrion stopped ahead of her but did not rush her. Drogon was at the very back, facing away from them to watch their path.

Sansa did not stand up. She remained crouched on the cold stone floor of the waterway, looking up at Tyrion.

Her deep blue eyes appeared even more profound in the dim oil lamp light than they had five years ago; the fear was gone, replaced by a calmness Tyrion had never seen on her face before.

"The last time you saw me, I was still at Joffrey's wedding feast."

Tyrion leaned against the damp wall of the waterway, his short cane resting across his knees.

His voice was very soft, devoid of drunkenness or the cynicism he displayed in brothels. It was a kind of raw, unadorned calmness he rarely used in front of others.

"You remember those things. I was locked in the Red Keep dungeon waiting for my execution, and Jaime let me out; I should have run straight away. But I went to my father's study first. He was on the privy at the time. He didn't have a wine goblet in his hand—I only found out why the next day. Because you stole his goblet."

"I didn't steal it. I hid the goblet inside a pillowcase. I thought that if he couldn't find his goblet, he might drink later. And then you wouldn't have to wait to die in the dungeon."

Tyrion's lips parted slightly. He didn't speak. His green eyes blinked twice under the oil lamp—not the usual sarcastic blink, but the kind of blink that happens when one is struck by a fact and needs to rearrange all their memories.

"...I didn't know you had hidden the goblet. No one told me. When I went in and he didn't have the goblet, I thought—this is my chance."

Sansa stood up and wrapped her cloak tightly around herself again. Her voice was very low, but without any hesitation.

"We're even. Now—take me to Dragonstone."

Evening. Dragonstone. The volcanic rock training ground.

Shortly before the rescue timeline in King's Landing.

White Mane was conducting the final round of sword practice before the Brand calibration.

She was not using her dragon-kiss sword, but instead had gone back to that old arakh with three chips in its blade—because she needed to compare the difference in the center of gravity between the two weapons, to fully solidify the weight memory of the dragon-kiss sword into her muscles.

The arakh turned, slashed, and thrust backhanded in her hands. Every move was half a beat slower than usual—she deliberately slowed her movements, letting herself memorize the position of the arakh's center of gravity, then comparing it to the dragon-kiss sword in her mind.

The center of gravity of the arakh was forward, three fingers ahead of the crossguard. The dragon-kiss sword's center of gravity was further back, almost on the hilt. This difference was the source of the slight pause before her backhanded thrust—it wasn't hesitation, it was that the sword's center of gravity had changed.

Daenerys stood at the edge of the training ground, wearing simple black riding leathers, her silver-gold hair tied in a low ponytail. Her purple eyes were focused on observing White Mane's movements.

She wore a purple flame stone ring on her left thumb, and there was no silk scarf on her wrist—she had untied that black silk scarf today and was gripping it in her right palm. The scarf was folded several layers thick between her fingers, its edges already frayed.

After demonstrating the entire sequence of consecutive slashes followed by a backhanded thrust, White Mane sheathed her blade. The arakh made a dull metallic clatter as it entered the scabbard—the steel blade knocking against the iron mouth of the scabbard, completely different from the silent smoothness of a valyrian steel sword being sheathed. She turned to Daenerys.

"He is rescuing someone tonight. Does the blood bond feel anything?"

"Yes. He hasn't slept since he finished dismantling the wildfire last night. His heartbeat has maintained a steady, excited rhythm—he's like this after every long operation. But his heartbeat tonight is steadier than last night. He relaxed a little after the wildfire was dismantled, but not much. He is waiting for the moment of the rescue."

White Mane placed the arakh on the weapon rack and walked over to Daenerys. Her amber eyes shimmered with a golden-green light in the setting sun. Her voice was flat, but her phrasing was a formal tone she rarely used—the kind of tone she only used when speaking to the Khaleesi of her own tribe.

"Mother of Dragons. I ask one thing of you."

"Speak."

"After the Brand calibration, the Storm Ancestor Dragon won't be able to harass him with my Brand anymore. But it has already read so much data from my Brand before—my combat habits, my weaknesses, the image of me riding on him in Yunkai. It will use these against him in the trial."

"I know he can tell the difference between real and fake. But the Brand is on his chest, and my mark is on the back of my neck. If he is stabbed by 'me' in the trial, even if he knows it's fake—the Brand will still hurt. When that happens, do not lock him. That is the pain of the trial. It is not his fault."

Daenerys's purple eyes gazed at White Mane.

A moment later, she reached out and unfolded the black silk scarf in her right palm—the one she had always used to cover the old chain marks—and tied it around White Mane's wrist. The scarf fluttered gently in the evening breeze, then settled smoothly against White Mane's bronze skin. The black had faded to a deep gray, and the frayed threads at the edges shimmered with a faint, fine luster in the setting sun.

"I will not lock him. But if he wins when the trial ends—you make him untie this silk scarf himself. The chains belong to me. The silk scarf belongs to you."