95: Chapter 95 Sivas Chess

Tyrion stared at the board for three seconds. Then he smiled. It was not a mocking smile.

It was the smile of someone who hadn't encountered an interesting opponent in a long time—a genuinely happy smile. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

He pushed "A History of Architecture in the Seven Kingdoms" aside and moved the candle next to the board. The candlelight cast flickers of light and shadow over the squares on the board.

"Meereenese. In Meereen, the elephant in Cyvasse can move three spaces horizontally. The King's Landing rule is two. You are used to moving three—which means you haven't left Meereen for more than half a year. The rules of Slavers Bay haven't faded from your fingers yet."

Drogon's fingers paused on the elephant piece for a moment. Then, he moved the elephant two spaces horizontally—abiding by the King's Landing rules.

"He deduced the time I left Meereen from my chess habits. This man is a monster. But monsters have their uses—he knows everything about King's Landing.

The internal structure of the Red Keep. The shift changes of the Gold Cloaks. Even the circumstances under which Cersei would ignite the wildfire. If I can get him on our side—the value of the Tyrell alliance would double."

System pop-up.

"Tyrion Lannister threat assessment: Political intelligence S-rank. Observation S-rank. Combat ability D-rank.

Loyalty to House Lannister: Negative—due to lifelong abuse and persecution by his father, Tywin Lannister.

Hostility towards House Targaryen: Low.

This person once provided information about Daenerys Targaryen to Varys during her exile, but not out of hostility—rather, out of a complex resonance with the 'exiled'.

Recommendation: Recruit with caution. Do not actively expose your dragon identity in front of him unless you are certain you can get him on your side first."

The game went on for half an hour.

Tyrion used his heavy cavalry to take Drogon's light cavalry on the fifteenth move.

The piece landed on the board with a crisp clack.

On the eighteenth move, he picked up a dragon piece—the dragon on the board is a decorative piece, usually unused, but he insisted on using it—and blocked the retreat route of Drogon's elephant.

The dragon piece was crudely carved, with a chipped wing, but its placement perfectly choked off Drogon's path.

Drogon resigned on the twenty-first move.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to play.

He could have beaten Tyrion on the tenth move—using the elephant to flank with the light cavalry, he could have checkmated him within five moves.

But he lost on purpose. Because he needed an excuse to bring up the "hunted target" he had already planned to mention.

And he needed Tyrion to be in a relaxed state after winning, to take the initiative to ask more—the winner is the most relaxed, and when relaxed, the tongue is loosest.

Tyrion spun the dragon piece between his fingertips.

His green eyes watched Drogon through the candlelight. He had already drunk three cups of fake wine, his face slightly flushed, but his eyes were brighter—the more he drank, the faster his mind worked. This was a unique gift of House Lannister.

"You lost. Speak. Who are you hiding from?"

Drogon finished the cup of fake wine in one gulp. The wine was so sour it made him want to flick his tail—but he had no tail to flick now. He placed the cup on the edge of the board, crossed his hands on the table, and lowered his voice. It was as if he were sharing a secret he didn't want the next table to hear.

"A dragon."

Tyrion's fingers froze.

The dragon piece hung in the balance at his fingertips. The inertia of the rotation let the piece spin another half turn on his knuckles before he gripped it. His expression stiffened for less than half a second.

Then he placed the dragon piece back on the board, his movements very light. His voice still carried a hint of drunkenness, but every word was more precise.

"A dragon. What kind of dragon? A Targaryen dragon? Or... something else?"

"Hasn't news from Storms End reached King's Landing? Someone among Stannis's remnants saw a black dragon at Storms End—not flying over, but perched outside the castle.

Stannis didn't fight. The black dragon grabbed something and flew away. I just came from Storms End.

I am just one person, but those people saw a dragon. Some say I might be a dragon scout. Now the mercenaries at Storms End are looking everywhere for 'the person who spoke to the dragon,' preparing to capture them and trade them to Cersei for a bounty. They are who I'm hiding from."

Tyrion was silent for a long time. The candlelight danced in his green eyes.

His finger traced slowly along the rim of the wine cup, making a faint friction sound. Then he poured two cups of wine—not the fake stuff, but his own treasured, genuine vintage from The Reach.

The color of the wine was two shades deeper than the fake stuff. He pushed one cup to Drogon. He picked up the other and drained it in one go.

"I heard about Storms End. Not from the deserters—from Varys's spy network. Stannis let the dragon go, and the dragon didn't attack him. This made Cersei throw a tantrum all night."

He set down the cup. His green eyes looked straight at Drogon.

"You aren't hiding from the Storms End mercenaries. You are hiding from the dragon. More accurately—you are hiding from 'something else' that will come to hunt that black dragon next."

Drogon added another point to his assessment of him in his heart.

Knowing about the dragon Enforcement Squad? No. He didn't know. But he guessed it.

He guessed that Stannis letting me go wasn't because I was harmless, but because I had bigger trouble to deal with.

From Cersei's intelligence, Varys's secret reports, and my own hole-filled lies just now, he pieced together the correct direction—I am not hiding from the Storms End mercenaries. I am hiding from the things that will come to hunt me in the future.

Drogon set down his cup. His dark brown round pupils looked directly at Tyrion.

He withdrew all pretenses, leaving only an assessment—and an invitation.

"Lord Lannister. You hate your family, and your family hates you. Your father wants you dead, your sister wants you to disappear, and your brother is probably the only person you care about.

If you want to keep reading architectural history in a brothel, I have no objection. But if you want a different ending—tomorrow at this time, at the same table. I will bring a bottle of real wine from The Arbor. Not from The Reach. From the Summer Islands."

Tyrion didn't answer immediately. He gripped the dragon piece between his fingertips, turning it over and over.

His green eyes looked particularly deep in the candlelight. Then he gently placed the dragon piece in the very center of the board—that was the gesture for "proposing a draw" in Cyvasse.

"Tomorrow night. Bring real wine. And don't bring a fake sword—I know you are a dragon; you don't need to carry a fake sword to pretend to be a mercenary anymore."

Drogon's dark brown round pupils constricted sharply. But he didn't deny it. He just stood up and slung the fake sword back onto his back.

"How did you know?"

"The deserters from Storms End drew the black dragon. The black dragon has a new scale at the base of its left wing.

When you loosened your cloak earlier, you subconsciously protected your left shoulder—that is the movement of a dragon protecting a new scale on a wound. It's not a human habit. It's a dragon's."

He picked up his wine cup. He swirled it against the candlelight. The wine left a pale red film on the walls of the cup.

"Also—when you play chess, you have a habit of sweeping the pieces with your tail. You don't have a tail tonight, but your fingers brushed the table three times. Once when the elephant was taken, once when you sacrificed the piece, and once just now. Habits are hard to break."