125: Chapter 125 Outside the Secret Chamber

Drogon pushed open the stone door. He stooped to walk out of the secret chamber. The stone door closed silently behind him.

Melisandre sat cross-legged alone at the entrance to the secret chamber, a night brazier burning with low-lying blue-green flames before her.

She had kept watch all night—the edges of her red robes were stained with fine droplets of condensed sulfur steam from the volcano, the droplets shimmering with a faint golden luster under the holy firelight.

Her hood had slipped onto her shoulders, and her red hair shimmered with a faint golden luster in the morning light—a gold not dyed by the sun, but by the weak resonance of the 1.2 percent dragon blood within her after the trial was passed.

She stood up. She reached her fingers into the night fire, staining them with a trace of holy fire—the blue-green flames condensed into a drop of glowing liquid on her fingertip. Then, with extreme solemnity, she pressed it against his forehead.

It was the highest blessing of the Lord of Light's priestess for a true dragon—fingertip pressed to the center of the forehead, the holy fire emitting a very faint hiss against his scales, like a water droplet falling onto a warm stone. Then it extinguished.

Her red eyes shone with a rare, almost tearful brightness in the reflection of the night fire. Her voice was steady, but her speech was much slower than usual—every word seemed to have been carefully considered.

"The flames tell me—the trial has been passed. The Storm Ancestor Dragon has entrusted its memories to you. I saw fragments in the flames of its execution—the three Grand Arbiters, three chains of causality, and a star carved in half.

The Lord of Light asked me to tell you—the Heavenly Dao Arbitration Tribunal is not invincible. The Law of Causality can be backlashed by Evolution. This is the first truth you have brought out from the trial."

Drogon let her fingers linger on his forehead for a moment.

Then he reached out and grasped her wrist, gently moving her hand down from his forehead.

Her wrist was thin, the wrist bone slightly protruding into his palm, and the faint pulse of dragon blood resonance could be felt beneath her skin. His slit pupils met her red eyes, his voice devoid of its usual roguishness.

"It guarded the Evolution fragment for six thousand years. Your Lord of Light—is there any relation to it?"

"The Lord of Light never mentions its origin in the prophecies. But tonight—the flames showed me a scene from long ago.

When the Storm Devourer was guarding the Evolution fragment at the edge of the Sea of Myriad Cosmos, an Old God once warned it in the form of light—warning that the Arbitration Tribunal was coming.

After the Storm Devourer sealed the Evolution fragment into the dragon egg, it was that very Old God who covered the fragment's causal traces with a web of light, allowing it to sleep undetected in the lower planes for thousands of years. The Lord of Light is not an Old God.

But the Lord of Light may share a common origin with that Old God."

Drogon was silent. Then he placed her hand back into the sleeve of her red robe. He turned to face the second person waiting outside the secret chamber.

Daenerys's bedchamber. Morning. Outside the window, the volcanic steam was dyed pale gold in the morning light, the columns of steam slightly slanted by the sea breeze.

Drogon pushed open the door to the bedchamber. Daenerys was already standing by the window waiting for him. She did not check his wounds like White Mane, nor did she press the light of prophecy to his forehead like Melisandre.

She simply stood in the morning light, her violet eyes scanning him from top to bottom—his left shoulder was slightly lower than usual when he walked; it was the residue of the phantom pain in his left chest, which he might not have noticed himself.

A circle of silver-gray had appeared at the edge of his slit pupils—that was the mark of the Ancestor Dragon, clearer in the morning light than it had been in the secret chamber. His tail lashed slower than before the trial; it was the relaxation of suppressed extreme fatigue, the tip of his tail swinging one-third less in amplitude than usual.

She stepped forward. She placed her palm against the silver mate mark on his chest.

The mark grew slightly warm against her palm—it was a temperature unique to him and her, lighter than the warmth of a Brand, but more constant. She closed her eyes, sensing his entire state through their blood bond—the phantom pain remaining in his left chest was like a layer of extremely thin ice stuck to his scales, slowly melting away.

The weight of the Storm Ancestor Dragon's memories lingering in the depths of his consciousness was like a stone sunken to the bottom of the water; it didn't get in the way, but it was always there. The dragon energy, now more intense than before but better suppressed after his bloodline jumped to 2,400, flowed through his veins, each heartbeat pumping this energy to the edges of his scales.

She opened her eyes. She withdrew her hand. Her voice was very calm, but her fingers, which had been resting on his chest, lightly scratched him before withdrawing, her nails leaving an invisible scratch on his scales.

"The Storm Ancestor Dragon gave you a memory. About the Evolution fragment, about the Arbitration Tribunal. I want to hear it. But not now. Now—Barristan has prepared the northern expeditionary force, and Sansa's smuggling ship arrives this afternoon.

Drogon—thank you for saving her."

"I didn't climb the window. She climbed it herself. The rose bushes scratched her, but she didn't fall. She still remembered the safe landing spot from where she fell last time—a patch of gravel less than a foot wide between two rose bushes. She remembered it on her second climb."

The corners of Daenerys's mouth lifted in a faint arc. But in the depths of her eyes was a complex emotion that only a blood bond could perceive—not jealousy, but a kind of gentle helplessness that 'he has finally learned to speak up for a Stark.' She moved her fingers away from his chest and tapped his scales lightly.

"Fine. You were just counting dragon crystals outside the back door. I know."

She picked up a raven's secret report that had just arrived that morning from the low table and handed it to him.

"News from King's Landing. This morning, Cersei discovered Sansa was missing. The Red Keep is under full lockdown. Joffrey smashed a wine goblet in the iron throne hall—Tywin's goblet.

Qyburn has been ordered to search the entire city using black magic. Tyrion sent gray smoke this morning using the chimney of the Copper and Bed Brothel—gray smoke means 'danger but do not evacuate yet.'"

King's Landing. Morning. Flea Bottom. Copper and Bed Brothel.

Tyrion Lannister sat on the roof. In his hand, he held the telescope Jaime had given him, the lens barrel gleaming with a dull brass light in the morning sun. His deep green eyes were fixed on the chimney of the Tyrell Mansion.

The chimney did not emit white smoke this morning—it was a wisp of extremely faint gray, slanted northward by the sea breeze. Gray smoke means 'danger but do not evacuate yet.' The smoke looked like an elongated gray line in the morning light.

He lowered the telescope. He tapped the roof tiles with a short cane. A hoarse voice came from beneath the tiles—the landlady; she had probably just been woken up, her voice still raspy.

"Stop knocking! I know, gray smoke, keep hiding. You politicians are more troublesome than customers who buy on credit."

"Landlady, at noon today, I'll have the fake The Arbor wine again. Put it on my tab as usual. If I don't die in King's Landing in the future—I will repave the roof of this shop. There are at least three leaks in your roof; I counted them last night."

"All your money goes to wine. Repaving a roof takes real gold and silver."

"After the war, I will have a new title. Called Chief Architect. Repairing roofs will be part of my job."

The landlady didn't reply again. She probably thought he was drunk again.

Tyrion laid the short cane across his knees. He looked up, watching the gray smoke gradually dissipate in the morning light—the last wisp of gray smoke was blown into faint flocs by the sea breeze.

He took out the secret raven letter Jaime had sent from his bosom—it read, 'The back door is closed. The shift schedule has returned to normal. After Sansa disappeared, Cersei smashed three wine goblets in the Red Keep, one of which was Joffrey's.

His finger was cut by the shards, and he cried like a pig.' He folded the letter and tucked it back into his inner coat pocket. Then he talked to himself on the empty roof.

"She didn't fall when she climbed the window. She landed on her bottom last time, but she didn't fall this time. She's made progress."