94: Chapter 94 Second Entry into the City

The Blackwater River ferry landing. The morning light was gray and hazy. The stench of King's Landing could be smelled from across the river. The ferry boat was packed with vegetable farmers, fishmongers, and refugees fleeing from The Stormlands. An old woman wearing a headscarf held a scrawny chicken in her arms, which clucked whenever the boat rocked.

Drogon stood at the stern of the boat. In his full human form. A dark gray old cloak wrapped around his entire body, with the hood pulled down very low.

On his back was a tattered leather bag containing a few changes of coarse cloth clothes, a pouch of dragonglass shards, and that forged valyrian steel sword bought from the King's Landing black market.

He had left the dragon-kiss sword with White Mane; while this fake sword wasn't good for real combat, the valyrian steel on the blade could at least be used to pose as a wandering mercenary.

He paid the two copper fee for the ferry. He didn't count the change. It wasn't that he didn't want to—it was that he had repeatedly told himself internally that from now on, not a single copper could be wasted, but he also absolutely could not reveal any flaws by trying to save copper.

Last time at the spice market, he had almost revealed his slit pupils over half a pound of black salt; that couldn't happen this time.

There were four new Gold Cloaks sentry posts added to both ends of the ferry landing. Four more than when he had come last time. They were interrogating everyone getting off the boat, mainly looking at faces, occasionally rummaging through luggage.

A fishmonger in front of Drogon was stopped, and a Gold Cloak snatched the largest trout from his fish basket. The fishmonger dared to be angry but didn't dare to speak up.

Drogon pulled his hood down a bit further. The Gold Cloak swept a glance over him. A wandering merchant with a tattered leather bag, nothing worth taking, nothing suspicious. Let him pass.

"Received. Find a place to stay first. Can't stay at the Broken Sail Inn from last time—although the owner is mute, the Gold Cloaks might check for repeat customers. Find a new one. A more broken one."

Street of Steel. The gathering area for blacksmith shops in King's Landing. The entire street was permeated with the smell of coal and the sounds of hammering.

Clang, clang, from early morning until midnight, making one's temples throb. The street surface was paved with gravel, iron filings embedded in the cracks of the stones, making a rustling sound when stepped on.

Drogon found an inn named "Copper and Bed".

It was even more broken than the Broken Sail in Flea Bottom. Downstairs was a blacksmith shop, the bellows puffing noisily. Upstairs were the guest rooms, the wooden walls blackened by years of smoke. The stairs creaked when stepped on, each sound like a complaint.

The benefits were also obvious—the Gold Cloaks were too lazy to patrol a place with such deafening noise, and the blacksmiths each minded their own business, with no one meddling in others' affairs.

He rented a small room on the top floor. The window faced the back alley; jumping down would land him in a narrow lane, and the end of the narrow lane led to two diverging paths. There were two more escape routes than at the Broken Sail last time.

The room was extremely small, with one bed, the bed frame made of pine, topped with a yellowing straw mattress. A table, with a crack in the surface, embedded with who knows how many years of grease. An iron nail was driven into the wall, which had held the luggage of who knows how many guests.

He placed the leather bag under the bed. He pulled back a corner of the straw mattress, confirming there was a hidden compartment under the floorboards that could hide things—probably dug by a previous guest to hide their private savings. He stuffed the dragonglass shards inside.

System pop-up.

"Stronghold security assessment: Street of Steel · Copper and Bed Inn. Pros: Gold Cloaks patrol frequency is low, about once every two hours. Sufficient escape routes. Being adjacent to a blacksmith shop can mask the trace energy fluctuations of the dragonglass shards. Cons: Noise level is higher than the dragon race's comfort threshold. The host's tolerance for noise in full human form is still higher than a human's, but long-term exposure may lead to a decline in sleep quality."

"I'm not afraid of noise. I can sleep in the veins of Dragonstone. The volcanic crater is rumbling and louder than this."

He sat on the bed. The bed frame groaned under his weight.

He pulled the extremely thin piece of parchment that Jorah had stuffed into his hands before he left from his bosom. A code compiled by Missandei. Three lines of tiny, fly-head script.

"One, Margaery Tyrell's personal maid is named Ayla Chesta, who buys calming tea at a Flea Bottom herb stall every afternoon. Contact code: Does your family's rose garden need new soil? Response code: The new soil is shipped from Highgarden.

Two, the old servant of the Red Keep secret passage is named Tomard, who works as a vegetable-washing chore boy in the Red Keep kitchen. He goes to the cold cellar alone to get meat at four o'clock every morning.

Three, among the five designated hideouts, the underground wine cellar of the Tyrell Mansion has completed preliminary arrangements. The other four are pending inspection."

Drogon recited the contents of the parchment three times silently. Then he stuffed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The parchment had a taste of aged mold on the tip of his tongue, similar to the one he chewed at the black market last time.

"First, go to make contact with Ayla. Then check the four hideouts. Finally, stake out a brothel for a night—half of the intelligence flow in King's Landing is in brothels. By the way, have a good meal. The food I had in the three days I came to King's Landing last time doesn't add up to the snacks I had in one night in the Meereen treasury."

"The host's obsession with food in full human form is approaching the level of obsession with gold coins. Suggest controlling it—excessively frequent eating may attract attention. A Meereen merchant should not eat five meals a day on the streets of King's Landing."

"…Four meals."

Evening. Flea Bottom. The "Copper and Bed" brothel.

This was one of the cheapest brothels in Flea Bottom.

The two-story wooden building was squeezed crookedly between two narrow lanes, the building leaning about five degrees to the left, only staying upright because it was propped up by the wall of the building next door. The sign depicted a bed and a copper coin. The bed was drawn like a coffin, and the copper coin like a naan bread.

Drogon pushed the door open and entered. The smell of smoke, cheap ale, and low-quality perfume rushed at him. A few guests were scattered in the hall—two drunk blacksmiths were playing finger-guessing games in the corner, and a wandering singer was dozing on a table, holding half a cup of ale that had spilled more than half.

In a seat by the window deep in the hall, a short man was reading a book by the last bit of daylight.

His height was only about half that of a normal person. His shoulder proportions were on the wide side, his head was large, and his legs were short, but his fingers were slender—those were the hands of a scholar.

He was wearing a deep red coat, the fabric was decent, but the cuffs were frayed. In front of him sat half a glass of wine, the color wrong—not the deep red of The Arbor, but the cheap light red of The Reach.

The book in his hand was "A History of Architecture in the Seven Kingdoms, Volume II" published by The Citadel, the edges of the pages frayed, the gold lettering on the cover faded to a dark yellow.

He turned a page. He traced his finger along the rim of the wine glass without even raising his head. His voice was languid, carrying a kind of matter-of-fact arrogance.

"Newcomer. Go sit at the bar, don't block my light."

Drogon's dark brown round pupils narrowed slightly. This height.

This voice. This reading habit and way of speaking. There was only one person in all of King's Landing who fit.

Tyrion Lannister. The son Tywin hated most. The younger brother Cersei feared most. The only person Jaime cared about.

Nicknamed "The Imp". He had once been Hand of the King, the commander of the Battle of the Blackwater, who used wildfire to burn half of Stannis's fleet—two hundred ships burned into skeletons in the green fire.

Now he was reading architectural history in this brothel that was even more broken than a coffin.

"Tyrion Lannister. Jorah's warning is still remembered—don't lie in front of him. He will expose you, and then use your lies as a side dish for his wine."

Drogon didn't go to the bar. He sat in the chair opposite Tyrion.

He unslung the fake valyrian steel sword from his back and leaned it against the table. The scabbard knocked against the table leg, making a dull thud.

The proprietress walked over. He ordered two glasses of The Arbor wine—not because he wanted to drink it, but because Tyrion's choice of drink revealed his consumption habits. A person reading architectural history in a brothel didn't need good wine; they needed a stranger who wouldn't bore them.

"The Arbor wine in this shop is fake. The smuggling ships from the Summer Islands were intercepted twice this year by raiders from the Iron Islands, so the real stuff can't reach King's Landing. The glass of wine from The Reach you're drinking cost about five coppers to procure. How much did they charge you?"

Tyrion finally put down the book. He looked up.

Deep green eyes—the green eyes of House Lannister, exactly like those of his brother Jaime—met Drogon's dark brown round pupils for a moment. The corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile that was half self-deprecating and half-evaluative.

"Fifteen coppers. Are you from Meereen? Or Volantis? Your accent sounds like Meereen. But Meereenese usually don't come to the brothels in Flea Bottom in King's Landing—they think it stinks here.

You not only came, but you also carried a fake valyrian steel sword. The sword is from the King's Landing black market; I've seen identical counterfeits in the Red Keep armory. Are you a merchant or a mercenary?"

Drogon gave him an extra point internally. Accent. Sword. Black market. He had broken down three pieces of information in one sentence and even hinted that he knew the inventory of the Red Keep armory.

This little dwarf's brain was faster than most of the nobles in King's Landing combined—it wasn't that his memory was good, it was that his mind turned quickly.

"Merchant. Occasionally a mercenary. The sword was given to me by someone to settle a debt.

You're right—it's fake. But the valyrian steel is real, just forged. It's enough to deal with the average bandit."

The proprietress placed the two glasses of fake The Arbor wine on the table.

The wine was pale, with sediment at the bottom of the glass. Drogon picked it up and took a sip. It was sour. But he didn't show any disgust on his face. He just put the glass back on the table.

Tyrion pushed the wine glass aside. He crossed his arms on the table. He leaned forward. In his deep green eyes flashed a spark of interest that only extremely intelligent people have when they discover a puzzle.

"A Meereenese merchant, carrying a forged valyrian steel sword, coming to a Flea Bottom brothel in King's Landing to order fake wine.

You aren't here for pleasure. You are just like me—you are here to hide from someone.

There are hundreds of brothels in King's Landing, yet you specifically entered the cheapest one. This means you either have no money, or you don't want to be noticed. You chose a seat near the back door—that's the table with the fastest escape route.

So, who do you owe money to? Or did you provoke some Gold Cloak?"

Drogon didn't answer. His finger tapped on a dusty chessboard by Tyrion's hand. Cyvasse. A cheap form of entertainment provided by the brothel, half the pieces were missing, and the remaining ones had had their edges worn round.

The elephant's trunk was broken, and a piece of the heavy cavalry's horse head was chipped off. The dragon piece was still there, but a corner of its wing was missing.

He pulled the chessboard in front of himself. He picked out the elephant and the heavy cavalry from the black and white pieces. He set up the opening. The movements were very slow, and every step was deliberately made clear for Tyrion to see.

"Play a game. If I win, I'll treat you to wine tomorrow night—if this shop hasn't closed down by tomorrow. If you win, I'll tell you who I'm here to hide from."