The Shy Maid lay tethered to a rotting pier in Selhorys, her patched sails furled, her hull creaking like an old woman's knees. The Rhoyne here was wide and sluggish, the color of weak piss under a white sky heavy with the threat of rain.
Dothraki had been sighted to the east, or so the dockside whores claimed, and the townsmen had barred their gates and doubled the watch on the walls. No one was sailing until the khalasar moved on. So they waited, and the waiting gnawed at all of them.
Haldon Halfmaester had brought out the cyvasse board and set it upon a cask.
The pieces were carved from ivory and onyx, jade and marble: dragons and elephants, heavy horse and light horse, spears and crossbowmen, trebuchets and catapults.
Young Griff sat cross-legged on the deck, his blue hair still wet from swimming, his shirt discarded in the warm evening.
Tyrion climbed onto a stool across from him.
Young Griff, blue hair blowing in the river wind. "You beat Haldon again yesterday," the boy said.
"I did," Tyrion replied. "Would you honor a dwarf at Cyvasse?"
Young Griff turned at that, his violet eyes steady upon Tyrion.
"I have played before," he said quietly. "If you wish to waste time, I will join you."
Tyrion studied the board, fingers brushing the polished pieces as if testing their weight. The evening air smelled faintly of river rot and fish, and the wind tugged at the boy's hair, blowing it across his face.
"Very well," Tyrion said, moving a dragon forward.
"Let us see how clever you are, lad." He gave a crooked smile, one shoulder shrugging.
"But I warn you… Ivory dragons bite sharper than you think."
Young Griff's lips twitched, almost a smile, almost nothing. He leaned forward, placing a black elephant carefully, shielding a cluster of spearmen.
"Then I shall hope your dragons are as sharp as your tongue."
Tyrion chuckled.
"A sharp tongue is the best weapon a dwarf can carry. It strikes without warning, and leaves no wound you can see… at least until it is far too late."
He moved a knight, then a catapult, deliberately slow, as if savoring the tension.
The boy studied the board, eyes narrowing, lips pursed. Tyrion watched, letting him think he was merely playing the game. In truth, every move Tyrion made was a question, a probe.
"You move carefully," Tyrion said, voice low.
"Not as a sellsword, nor a hedge knight… someone trained, carefully, from youth. You learned more than fighting, did you not?"
Young Griff's hand paused, then moved a piece anyway, precise and deliberate.
"Perhaps," he said, almost too evenly. "And you? You are more than a dwarf who knows the game."
Tyrion smiled thinly and pushed his own pieces forward in response, yielding ground here and there while the boy attacked with dragon, elephants, and heavy horse up front, a young man's formation, as bold as it was foolish.
He even murmured encouragement once or twice. "A clever thrust."
The game went on until Tyrion saw the opening. He seized his black dragon and flew it across the board in one long swoop.
"I hope you will pardon me," he said mildly. "Your king is trapped. Death in four."
The boy stared at the playing board. "My dragon—"
"—is too far away to save you," Tyrion finished. "You should have kept her closer."
"But you said—"
"I lied," Tyrion told him. "Trust no one. And keep your dragon close."
Young Griff jerked to his feet so violently that his stool toppled backward. He kicked over the board with one bare foot. Cyvasse pieces flew in all directions, bouncing and rolling across the deck of the Shy Maid, an ivory dragon skittered past Tyrion's boot, a jade elephant spun to a stop against the rail.
"Pick those up," the boy commanded, breathing hard.
Tyrion looked up at him for a long moment.
He may well be a Targaryen after all, he thought. The temper is there, if nothing else.
Then the dwarf slid from his stool and lowered himself to his hands and knees. He began to crawl about the deck, gathering the scattered pieces between his stubby fingers.
Tyrion gathered the last of the pieces, a small onyx dragon and a white marble elephant and placed them carefully back onto the board.
His knees ached against the rough deck, but he kept his face pleasant, almost cheerful.
Young Griff stood over him, breathing hard, violet eyes still flashing with anger. For a moment he looked every inch a boy who had never been contradicted in his life.
"You think this is a game?" the boy demanded.
"I think everything is a game," Tyrion replied, pushing himself back onto his stool with a grunt. "The only difference is that some people realize it, and others… do not. Until it is too late."
He began resetting the board with slow, deliberate movements, placing each piece exactly where it had been before the outburst. The ivory dragon went back to its starting square. The black elephant beside it.
Young Griff watched him, fists still clenched at his sides.
"You mock me," he said.
"I test you," Tyrion corrected softly. "There is a difference, lad."
Haldon Halfmaester, who had been pretending to read a book nearby, finally looked up. His narrow face showed no surprise, only weary resignation.
Tyrion continued.
"You play boldly. Aggressively. You commit your dragon early and trust your heavy pieces to carry the day. It is the way of young men… and kings who believe the world will bend because they wish it so."
Young Griff's jaw worked.
For a moment it seemed he might kick the board again. Then, slowly, he righted his stool and sat back down. His violet eyes were colder now.
"You presume a great deal, dwarf."
"I presume nothing," Tyrion said, smiling thinly.
He moved a spearman forward, offering a sacrifice.
"Your move."
Young Griff stared at the board for a long time.
The river lapped against the hull of the Shy Maid. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried.
Finally, the boy reached out and moved his dragon not forward this time, but back, shielding his king.
Tyrion's smile widened, small and sharp.
"Better," he murmured. "Much better."
Tyrion let the silence stretch as he reset the board, placing each piece with deliberate care. The river wind tugged at Young Griff's blue hair, but the boy's violet eyes were fixed on him now with open hostility.
"You improve quickly," he said at last, nudging a crossbowman forward.
"A rare trait. Most men prefer to repeat their mistakes. It saves them the trouble of thinking."
Young Griff did not look up. "Perhaps I have had better teachers."
"Oh, I have no doubt of that." Tyrion's mismatched eyes flicked briefly toward Haldon, then away again. "A halfmaester, a knight in exile, a septa to teach you courtesies… and no doubt a few others, each carefully chosen."
The boy's fingers tightened slightly around his piece.
"You speak as if you know them."
"I speak as if I have seen such games played before." Tyrion shifted slighty. "Not on a cyvasse board, mind you. On a far larger one."
He sacrificed a knight. Young Griff took it without hesitation.
Bold again, Tyrion thought. But listening now.
"That is the trouble with careful plans," Tyrion went on lightly.
"They require careful pieces. Each placed just so. Each taught their role." He tilted his head. "And sometimes… one forgets that pieces are not made of ivory or onyx."
The boy's gaze snapped up, sharp.
"And what do you think I am?" Young Griff asked.
Tyrion spread his hands. "A boy."
The answer came too quickly to be harmless.
"A boy taught to swim before he could walk," Tyrion continued. "A boy taught languages, histories, warfare… and cyvasse." He smiled faintly. "A boy hidden from the world, yet groomed to rule it."
Young Griff's lips pressed into a thin line.
"You mistake me."
"Do I?" Tyrion leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Then tell me I am wrong. Tell me you are nothing more than a sellsword's whelp with pretty eyes and a talent for the game."
Haldon shifted faintly where he sat, but did not interrupt.
Tyrion toyed with a cyvasse piece between his fingers, turning it idly as if the game still held his interest.
"Tell me, lad…" he said, almost lazily, "what do you know of the Sack of King's Landing?"
Young Griff stiffened. "The city fell. My… the king's men were butchered. The Lannisters and the Mountain—"
"Ah, yes. The Mountain." Tyrion turned a fallen black dragon slowly in his hand.
"Elia Martell and her babes were murdered in the Red Keep while your supposed father rode to the Trident. Rhaenys dragged from under her father's bed. Aegon… poor little Aegon, dashed against a wall, his head smashed like an overripe melon. Or so the singers tell it."
The boy took one step back. His face had gone pale beneath the fading blue dye.
Tyrion kept crawling, plucking up another piece.
"A tragic tale. A babe killed in his mother's arms. Yet here you stand, tall and strong, with purple eyes no dye can truly hide and a temper hot enough to kick over a cyvasse board."
He glanced up, mismatched eyes gleaming. "Almost as if the boy who died that day… wasn't you at all."
Young Griff backed away another step, fists clenched at his sides.
Tyrion gathered the last few pieces and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. "Varys and Illyrio have spent years preparing someone. A septa. A halfmaester. A knight to teach you the sword. An old soldier who watches over you like a hawk."
He gave a small, crooked smile. "Who better to raise Rhaegar's son than Rhaegar's dearest friend?"
The boy's breath came quicker now. He looked cornered.
Tyrion climbed back onto his stool with some effort, brushing dust from his knees. He set the gathered pieces back on the board one by one with deliberate calm.
"As for me," he said quietly, "you may as well know the truth. I am Tyrion Lannister. Son of Tywin Lannister. The Imp. Kinslayer. The man who put a crossbow bolt through his own father's belly."
He looked up at the shaken boy and smiled small, sharp, and utterly unafraid.
"Now then… shall we play another game?"
Young Griff stared at him, chest still rising and falling.
For a moment the only sound was the river lapping against the hull and the distant cry of a bird.
Griff's voice cut through the silence, low and dangerous.
"You have said enough, dwarf."
Tyrion ignored him and kept his eyes on the boy.
"You're angry. Good. A dragon should be angry. But anger is a poor counselor. Let me give you some advice… free of charge, since I've already lost the game."
He tapped the black dragon piece with one finger.
"Keep your dragon close. Never send it too far from your king. That was your mistake just now. You sent your strongest piece across the board too early, and it left your king exposed. The same mistake your father made at the Trident."
Young Griff's jaw tightened. "You dare speak of my father?"
"I dare speak the truth," Tyrion said calmly.
"Your father was a great man, but he made one fatal error… he trusted too much in glory and too little in cold calculation. Now you stand here with a stronger claim than your aunt Daenerys. She has three dragons and an army of freed slaves. You have nothing but a handful of exiles and a sellsword company still across the sea. Why go begging to her in the east when you could land in the west and make her come to you?"
The boy's eyes narrowed. "You want me to abandon my aunt?"
"I want you to be smart," Tyrion replied.
"Daenerys is a conqueror. She has spent years carving her own empire out of blood and fire. Do you really think she will happily step aside for a nephew she has never met? Especially when there is already another dragon prince growing strong beside her in the east, her own son, Rhaego, the boy the world was told died stillborn and monstrous in the Dothraki sea. He lives. He flies or so they say. But he stands at her side."
Tyrion let the words settle like poison.
"Go west now, while Westeros is weak and divided. Land in Dorne. Raise your banners. Let the realm remember the true blood of the dragon. Make Daenerys come to you as an equal, or as a supplicant. That is how you win a throne. Not by sailing east to beg for scraps at your aunt's table."
Young Griff's face had gone white with rage. His hand trembled as he pointed at the scattered pieces.
"You speak as if you know better than Varys. Than Illyrio. Than my own father."
"I speak as someone who has watched kings and would-be kings destroy themselves with pride,"
Tyrion said quietly. "Keep your dragon close, Your Grace. Or you may find yourself with nothing left to rule."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in.
Young Griff stared at him for a long moment, breathing hard. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away toward the afterdeck, fists clenched.
Griff's eyes burned holes into Tyrion's skull.
"You play a dangerous game, Lannister," the older man said, voice low and lethal.
Tyrion smiled up at him, small and sharp.
"All the best games are dangerous, Lord Connington."
The Shy Maid drifted onward down the Rhoyne, but the air between them had grown far heavier than the river mist ever had.