The game of cyvasse, that favored pastime across the world of Ice and Fire, had its origins in Volantis and spread through trade. After the feast ended, burdened with thoughts, Drogo summoned Morrafos to his mansion to play a match.
Cyvasse was like the deployment of armies upon a battlefield, and the khal thought the shrewd old triarch would be a worthy opponent.
But when he saw Morrafos place his dragon, elephants, and heavy cavalry at the very front in an attack formation, Drogo's interest waned.
To him, it was reckless, near idiotic—a gamble for swift victory at terrible risk.
Such is the folly of men, Drogo thought with disdain. They believe dragons invincible. They do not see that such weapons are strongest when revealed at the right moment, after the foe is understood. Against a cunning, deep-rooted enemy, a rash strike can squander one's greatest strength.
He let Morrafos move first. Missandei stood at the table's side, watching the game unfold.
She had returned to the square on her silver mare at the start of the feast, unwilling to stray too far from her king. As his personal scribe, she had little of the freedom others enjoyed.
After a few cautious rounds, with neither side losing ground, Morrafos reached to move his dragon. Drogo cleared his throat and could not help but remark,
"Were I you, I would not do that. To unleash the dragon so soon is a grave mistake."
Still drunk from the wine, the triarch assumed his words a ploy. He smiled.
"Once, Aegon the Conqueror atop Balerion shattered Volantis's dream of dominion. I know well the power of a dragon."
He advanced his dragon, capturing one of Drogo's invading elephants, then looked at him with a smug smile.
Drogo betrayed no reaction. Calmly, he slid a spearman across the board, striking down the mighty dragon with a piece thought weakest of all.
Morrafos was aghast—his strongest, most flexible weapon felled by a pawn. He muttered curses at his own carelessness.
Drogo regarded him sternly.
"Perhaps you do not understand. Even a child of three could drive a fine needle into a giant's heart and slay him. There is no such thing as true invincibility."
In his mind, Drogo had been but a beast of brawn. Yet the triarch now saw a man who spoke with philosophy and reason, whose words rang with logic.
"You speak wisely, khal," Morrafos said humbly. "I have learned from you."
The khal pressed further, unwilling to leave the hint ungrasped.
"Triarch, dragons are not invincible. A dragonrider needs allies."
Joy flooded Morrafos's face. He had feared Drogo would seize Volantis for himself, reducing him to a servant. Now he understood—the khal wished for alliance.
His body shook with excitement.
"To stand beside Khal Drogo, to share oar and keel, is the greatest fortune of Volantis. My thanks!"
Drogo's voice grew solemn.
"From this day forth, I, Drogo, and the Free Bay shall be Volantis's strongest shield. I hope you, Triarch, will see it the same."
"Of course, of course. I swear it," Morrafos vowed, piling oath upon oath.
Drogo nodded, satisfied. Losing his seat in Free Bay seemed bearable with such an ally at hand.
With the alliance struck, the game resumed.
Inspired, Morrafos did not falter after losing his dragon. He pressed a second attack, breaking into Drogo's camp and threatening his crossbowmen.
The triarch no longer sought only great kills—even the small ones, he meant to take.
To Drogo, such pieces were expendable. He moved his dragon to press against Morrafos's elephant, intimidating him.
A few empty moves later, "Crack."
Drogo's heavy cavalry crushed a spearman in the plain, and he took the chance to offer reassurance.
"When armies clash upon open ground, cavalry are ever the bane of infantry. With my khalasar, Nyessos's partisans are nothing to fear."
It was a gift to his new ally. He knew the old man would be grateful.
With Maracho's faction destroyed, Nyessos's men were Morrafos's last true obstacle to ruling Volantis unchallenged. The triarch was well pleased with this gift.
"I shall repay the khal's kindness with deeds," Morrafos swore.
With Morrafos's central commander exposed, Drogo swept the board with his dragon, then smiled faintly.
"In three days, I march west from Volantis. Until then, I will lend you the Unsullied to silence any voices that oppose you."
The triarch was about to respond when one of his Iron Elephant guards hurried in, whispering in his ear.
Morrafos's face darkened with shock. He waved the man off and said gravely,
"Nyessos is dead. The guard reports his face bore terror, as if slain by something dreadful."
Drogo frowned. "In all Volantis, who else could inspire such fear but I?"
Morrafos thought long, then shook his head.
"No one. Maracho and Bennero are dead. You and I have been here at the board. None else could frighten him so."
"Then who?" he wondered aloud.
Drogo cut him short. "Triarch, Nyessos is gone. His partisans leaderless. If you do not move now to sway and purge them, when will you?"
The old man started, then bowed.
"My thanks, khal. I was a fool."
Drogo's eyes flicked to Missandei.
"Tell Grey Worm to lead the Unsullied with Triarch Morrafos. Let them quell the unrest."
The little scribe bowed. "Yes, my king."
As she passed behind him, she felt a sudden pat upon her back. Her heart leapt, face flushing red.
The khal fixed her with his eyes.
"Return quickly. I need you."
Flustered, Missandei quickened her steps to catch the hurrying triarch.
In less than twenty minutes, Drogo heard the little scribe's hurried steps returning. Near the door, her pace slowed, faltered.
Head bowed, cheeks flushed, she dared not enter.
Drogo rose, drew her inside the opulent chamber, and shut the door.
"Sit," he commanded, pointing to a chair. "Do not move."
Anxious yet hopeful, Missandei obeyed. Drogo picked up a comb and dye, and began to color her hair.
Just hair-dye. She was disappointed.
But when she saw the hue—a shimmering silver-gold—her heart pounded anew.
When her hair was dry, Drogo swept her up into his arms and carried her to the place she had dreamed of.
That night, Missandei wept tears of joy. Now and then Grey Worm flickered in her thoughts, but the shadow passed quickly.
Drogo thought her wild, nearly as mad as Daenerys—though not quite.
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