83: Chapter 83 Intelligence on King's Landing

The obsidian long table. The map of King's Landing was spread out once more.

This time, there were over a dozen new charcoal markings on the map—the guard rotation times for the city gates, the patrol routes of the Gold Cloaks, the positions of the ballistae at the Red Keep, and an area circled in red charcoal: the ruins of the Dragonpit beneath the Red Keep.

Next to the red circle, small text noted: "56 jars · wildfire · no open flames."

The group was more complete than last time. Daenerys sat at the head of the table, with Jorah and Barristan to her left, and Illyse White Mane and Melisandre to her right.

Illyse White Mane wore Dragon-Kiss at her waist, the dragon-shaped hilt guard glinting coldly under the dragonglass lamp.

In Melisandre's red eyes, the blue-green afterglow of the night fire still lingered—she had just finished a prophecy, and the tips of her fingers still held the warmth of flames.

Drogon had changed back into his short black trench coat and was standing before the map of King's Landing on the wall.

His tail swayed slowly behind him, the tip lightly poking at the marked locations on the map—with every poke, the ice spike at the tip of his tail left a tiny, cold mark on the parchment.

"The Gold Cloaks number about two thousand. Guard rotation happens four times a day, with six-hour intervals—during rotation, only four men are on duty at the main gate, making it the best window for infiltration.

The density of night patrols is twice that of the day—which shows that Cersei is most afraid of a night raid. The iron portcullis of the Red Keep's main gate is about three inches thick; a battering ram can break it, but it would require at least two rounds of impact."

He pushed a piece of parchment toward Jorah.

On the paper were dense coordinates and numbers—next to each line of coordinates, a simple jar icon was drawn in charcoal. Jorah unfolded it, a cold glint flashing in his grey eyes. He traced the coordinate list with his finger, stopping when he reached the bottom.

"Fifty-six jars. When The Mad King buried them back then, there were at least two hundred. The rest have likely already been dug up and used by Cersei—the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor were burned by wildfire; even after it burned, the ruins were still emitting green smoke.

If these fifty-six jars were detonated simultaneously, the entire Red Keep would be blown into a volcanic crater. The stones would melt, and the Iron Throne would be reduced to molten iron."

Daenerys tapped her finger lightly on the tabletop. The rhythm was not fast, but it was steady.

"So, before the siege, we must send someone to infiltrate the Red Keep to dismantle the fuses or move the wildfire jars. As for this matter—once the alliance with House Tyrell formally takes effect, we can have Margaery's people do it.

Her family has servants in the Red Keep, at least twenty of them, distributed across the kitchens, stables, and underground storage rooms. Moving wildfire jars requires manpower, and she has it."

Drogon took the golden rose brooch from his bosom and placed it on the long table, pushing it toward Daenerys. The golden rose reflected the light of the dragonglass lamp on the table—three petals, each with a different curvature, and on the back, two tiny characters were engraved.

It was not the family sigil, nor was it the golden rose pattern; it was words.

"Margaery Tyrell's personal token. It's not from House Tyrell—it's her own. Her exact words—House Tyrell controls seventy percent of the granaries in Westeros. Not fifty percent, but seventy percent.

The army and the commoners in King's Landing eat Tyrell grain. If House Tyrell turns to us, the Lannisters won't last a month under siege. A month later, the defenders of King's Landing will be gnawing on their belts on the city walls."

He paused. His slit pupils swept across the faces of everyone at the table, finally settling on Daenerys's eyes.

"Her conditions: After the new dynasty is established, Highgarden retains the position of Warden of the South, and House Tyrell keeps all lands and titles. She herself is to have a seat on the Small Council. And—"

Daenerys picked up the brooch and turned it over to look at the back. She traced the carvings with her finger—each stroke was very thin but steady. It wasn't engraved by a craftsman; it was done by the person herself. She looked up.

"And what else."

"And that she doesn't want to be treated as a marriage pawn anymore. She said if my house had a suitable candidate—but I said dragons don't just marry people. She didn't press the matter."

Daenerys was silent for a moment. She placed the golden rose brooch in front of her, lining it up with her emerald necklace, chain, and square sapphire ring. The four items were laid out in a row on the table, each glowing.

Her finger tapped twice lightly on the brooch, her fingertip resting on the letters "M.T."

"Ser Jorah. What is the credibility of House Tyrell?"

Jorah leaned back in his chair. His fingers were unconsciously drawing circles on the tabletop, the calluses on his fingertips making a very faint rustling sound on the stone surface.

"House Tyrell is the wealthiest house in Westeros. Mace Tyrell is the titular lord, but the one who truly holds power is his mother—Olenna Rayder, known as the Queen of Thorns.

This old woman stood on the side of House Targaryen during the Usurper's War, later surrendering to Robert, but the condition for her surrender was that House Tyrell's lands would not be reduced by an inch.

Now her granddaughter is married to Joffrey—but this is not out of genuine support for the Lannisters; it is to preserve their influence in King's Landing. If House Tyrell defects—the credibility is about seventy percent.

The other thirty percent of the risk lies in this: the Queen of Thorns may be hedging her bets. She is holding both the rose and the snake in her hand."

"Hedging bets is nothing to fear. As long as she opens the granaries of Highgarden when I need them—that is enough."

Daenerys pinned the golden rose brooch to the inside of her collar.

Close to her heart. When the pin passed through the fabric, it made a very faint piercing sound—click. Then she looked up at Drogon. Her purple eyes were bright under the dragonglass lamp.

"Tell Margaery Tyrell—I accept her conditions. After the new dynasty is established, Highgarden will remain the Warden of the South, and House Tyrell will retain all lands and titles. As for her—she may serve as the Intelligence Advisor or the Envoy of the South on the Small Council; she can choose one.

As for marriage—House Targaryen does not force anyone into marriage. The choice is hers."

Drogon's tail flicked lightly behind him. The tip drew a small circle on the floor.

"I have noted your reply. How should I convey it to her?"

"Ser Jorah has a raven that leads directly to House Tyrell's eyes and ears in King's Landing—an old woman who runs a fabric shop in Flea Bottom; she sells linen on the surface, but in reality, she collects intelligence for the Queen of Thorns. The secret letter will be sent tonight. Use our own cipher—the one Missandei created. What was the name of that cipher again?"

"'Dragon Syntax.' Missandei named it. She felt the name was very fitting."

"Very fitting."