100: Chapter 100 Bottom Cabin

The ceiling of the smuggler ship's hold was less than a fist's width above Drogon's head. He was curled between two spice crates, his back pressed against the damp hull planks. Every time the ship rocked, the back of his head knocked against the wood.

Thud. Thud. Thud. The rhythm was as annoying as his own heartbeat.

Full human form. Tail retracted. Scales hidden. His deep brown, round pupils stared vainly into the darkness. The darkness was as thick as ink; he couldn't see a thing. His chest rose and fell at a frequency noticeably faster than a normal human's.

The ship had been sailing for six hours, and he had been curled up in this wretched hold for six hours.

"This wretched hold is more cramped than a dragon egg. At least a dragon egg is round. This damned place doesn't even let me stretch my tail—wait, I don't have a tail right now. It's even worse without a tail. At least flicking my tail could distract me."

System pop-up. Yellow text.

"Host detected with mild 'claustrophobic stress reaction'. Symptoms: heart rate 22% higher than resting value, respiratory rate increased by 35%, muscles continuously tense. Cause: Confined in a closed environment far smaller than the comfortable stretching space of dragon form for over six hours while in full human form. Although dragons do not have typical 'claustrophobia', long-term suppression of dragon characteristics—tail, scales, vertical pupils—accumulates nervous stress. Suggestion: Briefly restore Dragon-man form for at least ten minutes before arriving at Lannisport, even if just to stretch the tail. There is no one else in the hold; the sailors will not come down."

"No. There are people from House Tyrell on this smuggling ship, and there might also be spies from King's Landing. If someone comes down to check the cargo—and sees a person with a tail meditating between the spice crates, Margaery's camouflage route will be ruined."

"Then endure it. How much longer can the host endure?"

"As long as it takes. I endured longer than this when I was being hatched by fire inside the dragon egg. This is nothing."

No sooner had he finished speaking than his tailbone twitched violently. It was the start of a tail-flicking motion.

He forced it down. The muscles on both sides of his lumbar spine contracted involuntarily, simulating the fine-tuning movements his tail made to maintain balance in dragon form. He suppressed it again. Then he yawned—a completely unconscious, physiological yawn triggered by a drop in blood oxygen.

The suppression system short-circuited.

A dragon tail covered in fine, dark gold scales suddenly sprang from his tailbone. In less than half a second, it manifested completely from nothing. The tail whipped out, and the bone spur at the tip swept through the darkness, hitting a row of spice crates and embedding itself a full two inches deep into the wooden planks of the crate opposite.

Wood chips splattered and fell rustling in the dark. Then the tail stopped—frozen in mid-air, as if it were startled by its own dereliction of duty.

Drogon looked down and glared at the disobedient tail. The tail traced a half-circle in the air extremely slowly and sheepishly. He grabbed the base of the tail with his right hand and squeezed the words out through clenched teeth.

"Go back. Now. Or I'll stuff you into a spice crate and pickle you into a preserved tail."

The tail remained unmoved. It broke free from between his fingers and spread out beside him, the tip curling slightly in satisfaction—it was enjoying the stretch.

Every tail vertebra stretched out, and the scales rubbed against each other with the slightest friction in the dark, emitting a faint rustling sound. The ice-spike at the tip of the tail glowed with a faint, ghostly blue light in the darkness, illuminating a small patch of wooden planks nearby.

System pop-up. White text.

"The tail's unauthorized action is not a system malfunction. The suppression limit for full human form is seventy-two hours, but continuous high-pressure environments—claustrophobia combined with the inability to switch forms—will shorten the effective suppression time. The host's tail has spontaneously restored Dragon-man form characteristics; it requires five minutes of active suppression to retract. Suggestion: Rather than retracting it halfway, it is better to walk around the hold for ten minutes to let the tail adapt to the stretched state before re-entering full human form. The sailors will not come down in the next fifteen minutes."

Drogon was silent. He released his grip on the tail. The tail immediately resumed its usual lazy rhythm—swaying to the left, swaying to the right, occasionally flicking the tip to touch the ceiling.

His shoulder muscles relaxed significantly after the tail was restored. The sweat accumulated in the gaps between the scales dissipated as the tail swayed.

"Ten minutes. Then retract. This is your only time to stretch out tonight."

The tip of the tail happily drew a circle in the air. That counted as an agreement.

Lannisport. Dusk. The smuggler ship slowly docked.

The port here was much tidier than the port of King's Landing—House Lannister's management of the port was a hundred times stricter than the iron throne's management of King's Landing.

There was no piled-up trash on the docks, the fishmongers' stalls were neatly arranged, and even the porters wore uniforms of coarse cloth tunics. On the cliff behind the port, Casterly Rock looked like a crouching stone lion.

The entire castle was carved from a single piece of giant granite, glowing with a golden-red light in the sunset. The Lannister's red and gold lion flag fluttered loudly on top of the tower.

Drogon blended into the line of sailors unloading cargo and walked off the ship.

Full human form had been restored. On his back was that forged valyrian steel sword, and in his leather pouch were dragon glass shards and a simplified map of Casterly Rock's internal structure hand-drawn by Tyrion—not an accurate architectural blueprint, but a map drawn by Tyrion from childhood memories showing "how to bypass my father's study to reach Jaime's tower."

The map marked three blind spots for guard shifts and one abandoned kitchen flue. Tyrion's handwriting was very sloppy, but the location of every corridor matched exactly what he had said.

System pop-up.

"Dragon Heritage Perception has captured the precise coordinates of the Casterly Rock relic—Tywin Lannister's private vault. Relic attribute: valyrian steel armor 'Lion's Claw'. It is believed to have been purchased by ancestors of House Lannister from a certain Dragonlord and later placed deep in the vault as a showpiece. Reminder: Tywin Lannister's bedroom is located directly above the vault. Please maintain absolute silence during nighttime operations—Tywin's sleep is extremely light; according to family rumors, he only sleeps four hours each night."

"The vault is under Tywin's bedroom. Tyrion said his father sleeps four hours every night and spends the rest of the time reviewing documents. To enter the vault—I either have to wait for Tywin to leave Casterly Rock or go in during those four hours he sleeps. My goal tonight is Jaime and the main canister intelligence. The relic can be decided upon after I get the intelligence—if it's convenient, I'll take it; if not, next time."

"The host's rational restraint regarding the relic is commendable. But according to historical data—every relic the host said 'I'll take next time' was ultimately taken by the host in passing that same night."

"…That's because 'next time' just happened to come around."