Volantis

Though it's only been a few days, Clownpiece is sure that she's not in Gensokyo anymore.

The curious Hell Fairy pops out from the little shack she made atop a roof. It's truly a strange place she's found herself in, neither Gensokyo nor Hell from the looks of it. It's not even the same moon in the sky since its splotches don't show a giant rabbit.

Standing straight like a torch, she scans the horizon; the city of cobbled streets and headless bronze statues stretches from hills to seas, only broken by the blue sky above and the wide river below. Looking down on the bridge — a massive thing full of buildings and markets — humans bustle about in varieties of looks and clothes that won't look so out of place in Hell's upper crusts: multi-coloured silks, jewels as if carved from the stars, and slaves accompanying many of them. Some ride atop great animals with tusks and trunks as big as trees, occasionally letting out sad trumpeting bleat.

Where am I? Clownpiece clutches her torch, wishing that her Master is here. For a moment she considers that she's been left here on a secret mission — being the Goddess of Hell incurs a lot of responsibility — but that shouldn't be the case, right? Her Master always gave her a kiss and a big hug every time she leaves for an errand, and Master's Best Friend gave a hug, words of caution, and a bag of cookies and sweets.

Maybe there's been an incident in Gensokyo? Like the time someone made cards that had her face on them?

She sits down in thought, playing with the sleeves of her polka-dot hat. If it is an incident, would her Master know she's here? Maybe…

…

Clownpiece shakes her head; incident or not, now's not the time to wallow. In fact… She twirls her torch before declaring: "I shall make my own incident!" The audience of a thin black cat — one she affectionately named Asmodeus — meows back at her before curling up in the shack. If this is someone else's incident, then she'll disrupt it like any normal Hell Fairy. But if this place is untouched by Youkai incidents…

I'll bring the fear of damnation into human hearts! she giggles to herself. Her wings flicker in excitement; if only her Master can witness her, then there will be a shower of sweets and praise! Would an endless cone of ice cream be on the menu? Perhaps, with a good enough job. With newfound determination, Clownpiece leaps from the roof and takes into the air.

She flies low atop the bridge, staying close to the walls as to not be seen. Though her clothing didn't stand out among the humans, her wings did; she can still feel the kink in her neck where an arrow killed her yesterday. She'd rather not experience that again.

Speaking of necks… Her moving East meets with the massive bridge's centre, a decorated plaza full of poles and spires. The hands and heads of humans adorn them, reminiscent of Former Hell's Field of Thorns. She whistles at the few being pecked by crows but hides again upon noticing the guards below. The Stripeys, she observes, a name she chose for their choice of uniform. Humans with sharp spears and weapons called a crossbow; not as quick as her lasers but hits just as hard. I wonder what they did to get beheaded. Maybe stole some tea from a shop? Eh, she shrugs, everyone's going to Hell anyway, so why bother?

She has a few plans for the day, but the Stripeys' presence really disrupts that. The last time Clownpiece came up against them was when she scoured around the giant black walls on the Eastern part of the city. She never intended to enter it — just being near those black stones made her stomach roil as if full of snakes — but the guards gave chase even before she took flight! Quite mean, really, even against-

"WOAH! What are you?" a voice calls out from behind her. Turning quickly, she sees a small human child leaning out of an open window, eyes wide with amazement. "Why do you have wings? You can fly!?"

"Shush! I'm on a secret mission from Hell," Clownpiece whispers back. "You never saw me."

The child looks back at her slack-jawed before shouting into his home: "Mum! MUM! There's someone weird on the roof!"

Thinking quick, the Hell Fairy brings her torch to the kid's face and swirls it around like a whirlpool; his eyes slowly fill with its maddening purple glow and tears drip down his cheeks. Hearing footsteps, she hides below the windowsill to make sure everything's gone correct. "Alf," she hears a woman's voice, "Alf, sweety, why are you calling me up? You know your brother needs… Alf? Alf, what's wrong? Al-" There's a sudden clatter and the smashing of glass before the woman begins to scream.

Clownpiece peers into the room and sees the human child hitting the older woman with a hammer, laughing all the while. With that, the Hell Fairy flies away with a sigh of relief; crisis averted.

Her flight casts some shadows onto the bridge below, though most of the humans ignore it for one reason or another. Right now, she has her eyes on one thing: those huge tusked animals. If she can get close enough to their wrinkly eyes, she'll be able to madden them and create some chaos. A fine plan… Only spoiled by the fact that the men atop them are always armed. No, she'll have to find one that's empty of occupants and guards. But the further she flies, the more disheartened she is of the prospect…

That is until she reaches the Eastern mouth of the bridge with its black stone gate and clearing. A lone animal remains to the side of the plaza, greedily devouring piles of leaves and hay. To Clownpiece's surprise, the riders nor the guards are there. Looking around, she spots them among a congregation near the black gate; a man with red robes and metal staff preaches darkness and light by a great fire, something of no interest to her.

Taking the opportunity, the Hell Fairy lands atop the animal's head and shines the torch on its eyes. "It's lunatic time~" she giggles as the madness seeps into the beast like blood through rust. Before long, it raises its long nose and-

"PRWAAAAAA!" The call of the thing nearly bursts Clownpiece's eardrums, and that definitely attracted everyone's attention. It swings its head side-to-side, shaking her off before stomping its foot on the ground; she hides in a nearby alleyway, eager to watch in the name of her Master. "PRWOO!" it trumpets again, pulling hard against the chains anchoring it to a nearby building. Humans with spears and ropes try to calm the beast, but she can still see the purple glow in its eyes; it's not going to work, not right now at least. The crowd around the flame watch in horror as it flaps its ears and-

*TANG*

The chain breaks.

With a step, it crushes some poor man, and with a swing, it throws another into the river. Clownpiece laughs as the humans break into a scramble at the charging beast, leaving flattened and gored bodies in its path. She gives some bright cheer and hooting as it breaks those annoying Stripeys' shields like eggshells; nobody in Gensokyo has ever done an incident like this!

As the animal wreaks havoc, Clownpiece retreats into the alley. "That was… A SUCCESS!" she shouts, scaring all the rats. How many more are in the city? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? It'll be tedious to madden them all, but how fun would it be to ride one around? If only Sunny, Star, and Luna are here, then I'll be the leader of the fairies! It'll probably be easier with their help as well… She looks down in thought. Her Master once said that friends turn any jobs into play, but she knows no one here. Is there maybe a bucket Youkai somewhere? Or a fairy at the city's-

"Was it you who freed the elephant, child?"

"BWAH!" Clownpiece swings around and points her torch at the voice. At the end of the alley stands a large human, no, the preacher she saw near the fire. His skin seems to have been cut from Hell's shadows, and the flame tattoos on his face writhe like firey worms. That staff he's holding, with its iron dragon head, glows sickly green with every breath she takes. "Wh-Who are you!?"

"I could've asked you the same thing," he replies, eyes locked onto her torch. For some reason, the human's not turning mad! Why!? Her wings flutter, ready for a quick escape; that didn't go unnoticed. "Such an odd glow," he muses, reaching to her flames with his staff. "I see nought shadows but light, and a reflection is-"

Clownpiece takes a step back, her torch barely grazing the dragon head. "M-Master told me not to talk with strange humans!" she stammers out, a drop of sweat rolling down her back. "And, and she's REALLY strong! She'll crush you like a worm with her thumb!"

"I do not fear death, child, for mine is yet to come. But…" He rubs his chin in curiosity, dark eyes peering deep into her. "'Master,' you say? A slave girl with no tattoos? Tell me, was it your Master who lit the torch? A known pyromancer? Someone from the Land of Shadows?" The human's gaze returns to her torch, widening in realisation. "Tell me, girl. Is your name… Clownpi-"

With all the breath she can muster, Clownpiece blows the flame and lets loose a barrage of colourful stars and stripes. As the human cowers behind his red robes, the Hell Fairy takes off. Hitting and snagging on hanging clothes and branches, she finally reaches her little shack with a crash, scaring Asmodeus sleeping inside.

That… That was not good.

"How did he know my name!?" She bites at one of her hat's many sleeves, looking down at her flaming torch with confusion. It worked with humans, it worked with animals, and it worked with half-spirits, but not that particular human?

Maybe… "Maybe he's a Youkai exterminator?" To her horror, that might be it. She's had far too many skirmishes with the witch and the shrine maidens back in Gensokyo, but to think there's another one like them here… With a scary looking weapon no less! Does that dragon head bite? She's been bitten by a dog before, so would it be worse?

That only means one thing: getting one over the human. Most of them back away after a prank or two, and some may fall to the Kishins in Hell! "I'll need a plan," Clownpiece whispers to herself, drawing on a roof tile with her torch. "A rope, maybe some knives… What did Sunny say again on surprise attacks?" Though well-learned in maddening people, she's not as experienced as the Three Fairies in elaborate pranks with actual goals. "What do you think, Asmodeus? No, don't look at the torch," she chastises, putting the cat on her lap and rubbing its back. "Can't have you fight another kitty, can- Woah woah WOAH!"

Without warning, the floor of the shack rises and dumps the two onto the roof — she should've known it was a bad idea to build on a hatch. "Owie…" The cat's running away again, and there'll probably be a bump on her head. "What was…"

*Klick Klack Klick Klack*

Her torch. It's rolling down the roof. "No, no WAIT!" She scrambles to her feet and flaps her wings, yet it's already so near the edge that it's too-

A hand, dark as iron, snatches it before the ledge.

A human — the same one from before? — rises out of the hatch and looks down at Clownpiece. Her eyes tremble to near tears; what will Master say for losing the torch, to a human no less? She's never done that in her hundreds of years. But before tears could trickle, he offers the handle to her. "Here, girl."

There's a small pause before she grabs it, scooting away from the human as he steps onto the roof. He picks up her hat with his staff and plops it down on her head. "We call that a fool's hat in Volantis," he says with a smile, "reserved for jesters, both slaves and freemen. But you're no fool, are you, Clownpiece? The Lord's hearth burns bright in your eyes."

"…Who are you?"

"Moqorro," the human answers, "a Slave of R'hllor." He sweeps the hatch with his staff before taking a cross-legged seat; it reminds her of the many Buddha statues in Hell, a soft smile covered with a layer of black soot. "Recognise the name, child? The Red God as the Andals would say?" She shakes her head. "I see… The place you've wandered from must be quite unknown, and dark," he adds, eyeing her wings.

Is he here about the animal I made mad? 'Elephants'? Wait, I thought no one knew- "H-How did you know my…"

"Your name? Or that you sleep here beneath the stars and sun?" Moqorro lowers a hand into her flaming torch, seemingly unaffected by the heat. "Our Lord speaks to us through the greatest blazes and the smallest of embers. But your flame, this odd lavender light, is one not full of shadows." He draws his hand back, now wispy with smoke. "Forgive me if I've scared you, child. That was not my intention. I'm merely curious of the torch."

"And… And the elephant?"

To this the human laughs, his voice deep and crackling yet full of joy. "Ah, those beasts are always fierce to handle; the Lord's fires burn bright in their flesh, mighty warriors on the battlefield!" Moqorro looks down on the torch again. "Rest assured, what you did on the bridge," he waves his hand, "nought but I was a witness, and I only knew of your presence from the shadows of my fire."

She's not sure what he exactly said, but from the sound of it, she's off the hook. Her shoulder slumps and Clownpiece gives a big sigh… But no! She must still be wary of the stranger; the man is interested in her torch! "Master gave this to me," she says, giving one last attempt to shine it into his eyes. "It's mine."

"So you shall keep it," the human nods his head, again unaffected from the torch. "I only request that you demonstrate the flame to High Priest Benerro, who resides in the Temple of the Lord of Light. His eyes can see much sharper shadows than mine, and with your torch… Who knows what our Lord shall show us."

"Um, is that the big palace with the burning heart?"

"Temple, child, but yes. On second thought," Moqorro rises to his feet, the shingles creaking beneath him, "I invite you, Clownpiece, to stay in the Temple. A roof," he thumps his staff and a spark of green flame bursts from the dragon head, "is no place for a child. Do you not desire warmth? Where the fire burns eternal under His guidance?"

"Eternal fire?" Now her interest is piqued. Only Hell could have fires burn for so deep and long. Does that mean the Temple he mentioned is a gate or tunnel to Hell? Maybe I can see Master and report my pranks. Or is this Lord of Light a Kishin under Master? It's not uncommon for a Kishin to be worshipped by the damned, but rarer still from living humans. Asmodeus slinks back near her, but hisses at the man; Clownpiece grabs the cat by the neck and asks: "Can I bring him with me?"

Moqorro raises a brow. "I'm sure the High Priest can make an exception if you show him your torch."

"Umm… Will there be sweets?"

He chuckles. "We always make some for our younger priests and worshippers. Jams, blueberries, some even made with more… Mystical means. You'll only find better in the cups of the Triachs."

A gateway to Hell AND being served sweets? Even the human grandmas in Gensokyo weren't that kind! Any doubt she's had on the man crumble like ash; he seems nice, trustworthy, and maybe even prank-able. Like a Kishin! "Mister Moqorro, I accept your invite!" she beams her brightest grin, one that could even melt Master's Best Friend's heart.

Under the afternoon sun, Moqorro gives a kind smile. "Then I shall welcome you to R'hllor's flames, Clownpiece. May His light guide our way."

Outside Meereen

Daario always wakes up early in the morning, when the stars still grace the sky and the sun's barely risen. A fine-toothed ivory comb in hand, he fashions his blue beard into its usual three-pronged style. It'll do no good for a captain of the Stormcrows, least of all a Tyroshi, to look dishevelled for all to see. He can still hear the soft snoring of the Red Grace in his bed, taken last night from the makeshift Temple of the Graces to the South. As he examines the roots of his moustache, a familiar bald figure enters his tent. "Sallor!" Daario chuckles. "You've woken quite early this morning, haven't you?"

"Prendahl's calling," the Qartheen captain yawns, wiping his damp forehead with a rag. Examining it for a second, he asks: "Is this really blood?"

"Smells like blood, tastes like blood," Daario smirks as he puts on his usual brass dandelion jacket and gilded suede gloves. He'll wear the fine boots as well if only to look presentable. "I hear the Windblown's returned from their excursion."

"With a score of men missing," Sallor adds, amusing the other. "It's true, they say of slaughter beneath Meereen's walls. Certainly smelled like it, too."

"The whole camps reeks of slaughter, Sallor, yet none dead by the sword." Yet. They've stayed here to bide time, to know their enemy and strike their hearts true. But so far, there's only red and mist near the Queen of Cities. "Let me guess, Meereen's Great Masters have called for a meeting?" His fellow captain nods. "A good thing I've already dressed then." In truth, Daario's preferred method of communication is through the ringing of steel and the moans of maidens. But to keep up appearances, he still goes to these meetings. Donning his thick woollen cloak, the two men step out into morning's embrace.

He's been to Meereen before, with its coloured bricks and pyramids so high that some mistake them for mountains. But now all he sees in the West is a thick wall of red hanging in the air. The yellow sands near the Skahazadhan have turned cold and orange as if a thousand oxen were sacrificed here. Though the red mist is much thinner at camp, they can't see more than a mile in any distance. Nothing else in this world exists, Daario thinks grimly before coughing; the mist intends to drown him like the others, a cruel death for a desert. Dew drops from a Stormcrow banner, creating a red puddle at the foot of the pole. "To think we would need a coat in Slaver's Bay," he grumbles.

"Prendahl said that the Green Graces predicted bad tidings before the mist's arrival," Sallor replies, "and they saw it from the comet." High above, the comet streaks across the purple sky like a sword felling the heavens.

"He's too close to the slavers, I tell you. It clouds his judgement."

"Maybe. In any case, we should have signed that contract then," the Qartheen shrugs. "I hear the Andals' lands are nice this time of year."

"I prefer to see my contractor before signing anything, especially for this self-proclaimed Lady Stormcrow." Daario remembers the ill-feeling he had upon seeing that crow with parchment between its beak. Why would anyone name themselves Stormcrows? Are they a 'Lord' as it were in the West? How the hell did that bird find their camp? "We may as well accept a warlock's gift before signing that contract."

"Eh, the warlocks are docile enough." Sallor stops for a moment to watch a young slave girl garbed in blue drag a corpse — full of drinks or blood? — onto a small cart. There's two other bodies, sellswords by the looks of it. "Queer, true, but docile," he sighs before continuing. "Ever fucked one, Daario?"

"Once," he cringes. "She meant to take more than my seed with her. But," he pats the stiletto by his hip, "my hands were faster. For all the politeness your people have, I- *COUGH*" Daario spits a mixture of pink onto the sand before wiping his lips. To not have fresh air so near a river… "Did any of ours-"

"I counted five last night. And that's just us." With their walk, the two soon move across various tents and pavilions erected by other companies: the Long Lances' silver spears, Second Sons' broken swords, the Rose's blue and red bouquet… "Fifteen more from the Cats and eight from Maiden's Men, I hear. Couldn't breath and dropped dead where they stood."

"And their bodies taken to the warlocks' ships," Daario clicks his tongue. Diseased or not, those bodies should be burned or buried, not taken for transport. He'd rather not imagine why they do such a thing.

Moving past half-built trebuchets and scorpions, the sellswords' tents are soon replaced by grand and colourful pavilions, many pointed like pyramids with bronze harpies watching over them. Ostentatious and pale to the real thing, yes, but the nobles do cry greatly about their lost homes. At least their slaves are with manners, he reflects, watching those with iron collars flit about tents like manic pigeons. The few nobles he sees wandering outside are not dressed in their usual intricate tokars and instead simpler, but no doubt expensive, robes of gold threads and jewels. Harder to see the lithe Ghiscari frames beneath their new garbs…

An ageing slave offers to clean their boots as they enter a pavilion at the camp's centre. Once inside, their ears are buzzing with shouts and arguments from swords and contractors alike. Bloodbeard, captain of the Cats, yells something in Myrish before throwing a great flagon at the ornate carpets. Slaves bump into lanterns as they scramble to clean the mess. Someone in one corner of the pavilion is too busy fucking a poor cupbearer before throwing her away to serve the others.

Daario sighs. It'll be a long day, then…

"Where the Hell were you two?" Prendahl hisses, seated on some cushions with a spread of papers before him. The Ghiscari is less of a warrior at times and more of a coinmaster, wielding quills instead of steel. "The meeting started an hour ago!"

"And we didn't miss anything important," says Daario as he takes a place among the cushions. Someone offers him wine but he declines; the Meereenese vintage may as well have been made out of piss. Incenses burn all around them, eager to hide the smell of blood with their smoke and stench, yet never strong enough to rid the iron taste in his mouth. A Milkman takes stage and cries about gold and costs and slaves, but the sellswords couldn't care less. As long as they have their pay, they're malleable to an extent. Maybe with a red mouth on his throat will make him more appealing, Daario smirks, but he lets go of his arakh's handle. He'll be docile for now.

Nearly dozing at the constant buzz, he watches as a Meereenese noble steps forth. Amethyst fringes on his tokar… A Great Master from Meereen, is he? Though a tall frame, his movements are small and light, as if the slightest misstep would spill his precious blood for all to see. Pampered as a flower garden, Daario smirks. What's this one called? "I, Hizdahr zo Loraq, will remind you all of your bounties." For all his trappings, however, his voice stops most of the sellswords' arguments. "All men must die, it is known, but the Bronze Harpy shall stand for centuries more. With your steel and bravery, of course." A small nod signals a slave to bring him a great parchment, filled with promises of gold and treasures. But ink washes more readily than blood. "Though our family is young, the Loraq line promises a tenfold increase to your gold for the capture of the Great Pyramid."

"From what, you spindly prick? Wrestling it from a fucking mist!?" Bloodbeard shouts, spittle flying onto the poor captains in front. "The Company of the Cats wield swords and spears, hammers and shields, not feathers and fans! We're not slaves for you to command and clean!" He throws another full cup onto the carpet. Another Meereenese — Shakaz mo something or other — shouts something back at him and nearly prompts a brawl if not for the Unsullieds holding them back. Daario smiles to himself; with this many sellswords, at least it'll be entertaining.

"Our enemies, please, not each other," a warlock tuts. Man or woman he does not know for their face is too wrinkled to make out. "The captain named Tattered Prince, he's informed us of how men and beasts of odd qualities wander about Meereen's walls."

"Did Ol' Rags and Tatters tell you that?" Bloodbeard sneers, shaking off the eunuch holding his arm. "Ha! A change of breeze would move the Windblown astray, let alone true steel! His words are wind!"

"Where is the man?" Sallor whispers to Prendahl.

"Recovering from injuries, I hear. Must be a tough mist."

"Falla Haas, is the map finished?" Hizdahr asks.

A pale man with a ruby-encrusted nose rises and unfolds a parchment for all to see, though Daario is too far to discern its details. His finger traces a deep blue line, up and above a collection of red. "North of the Skahazadhan, there is a thinness of the mist where men could breath unimpeded," he explains, fingers moving ever closer to the red. "It's thickest at Meereen's mighty harbours, extending low like an upturned plate over us all. Horses are weak and flighty things, but my camels can shrug through sandstorms and droughts alike. This blood mist is of no matter to them."

While others begin discussing how best to send Qartheen's camelry, a select few sellswords speak in hushed whispers of the Doom. Mad as it might be, some are even claiming to have seen the mist move across the waters from the Smoking Sea, or that the West turned red during the comet's early days. All unfounded, of course, but they hold a powerful sway for some. "This' bloody sorcery! A curse!" a woman shouts, brandishing a dagger in the air. Must be the Maiden. "You warlocks do nothing while blood toils into the sands!"

Another round of shouts and complaints, this time of dead bodies and thievery. "You lot steal bodies like they're gold," Mero of the Second Sons bellows. They say he has two greatswords: one for necks and the other for maidens. "Bet you're the cause of this thing in the first place, luring us to our deaths for our flesh!"

"The Warlocks of Qarth weep at such claims, oh Titan of Braavos," says the warlock, flicking a tear off their cheek. "The Great Sorceress Seiga Kaku has no reason to worsen the relations between Qarth and Slaver's Bay, our allies so near the Dothraki hordes. That is not to say the mist is natural. The Great Sorceress has yet to teach us all the wonders of the dark wisdom, but we know enough that… This is an attack on Meereen."

"They occupy our homeland," says Hizdahr, receiving a cup from a slave. Beneath red-and-black brows, there's a raptorial hunger in his eyes. "The Harpy may fly to survive another day, but we shall return with sharpened fingers and stinger alike."

Chicken legs and hearts, all of them, Daario thinks. "What of the bodies?" asks Prendahl. "We mean to bury our own in the dunes."

"We may lack in martial prowess, but warlocks still serve a purpose on the field of battle. No one wants to linger around the dead, and that is why we thoroughly clean the camps," says the warlock with a deep smile. Falla Haas shifts on his feet, uncomfortable at their words. "But we've distracted ourselves long enough. Oh Great Hizdahr, we will retake Meereen, no doubt. The only question is how."

Instead of shouting obscenities and insults, the captains now argue on who shall take the most plunder and gold upon taking the city. Move the trebuchets North of the Skahazadhan? Unsullieds to the Southern gates? Risk it all and send men sailing for the harbour? From what Daario can hear, they're planning to do all and none. "They could've hired the Golden Company," Sallor chuckles before receiving the new terms of the contract. As Daario leans back, he sees his fellow captains' faces turn dark.

"It says as payment, in addition to the gold, the Stormcrows shall receive two Unsullieds for each man," Prendahl reads to the Good Masters, owner of the Unsullied. "We as its captain refuse that term."

"Unsullieds are second only to the legions of New Ghis," a Good Master reminds them, a whip ready at his lap. "My creatures know no fear nor pain and can best the savage Dothraki on the field. You'll have no fear of them taking the plunder for they are yours to command and kill, nor claim any whores for they've been cut."

"Yes, and to feed and keep alive," Prendahl adds. "Can they even ride horses? Or must they march each time our company moves?" The Good Master is about to say something before the Ghiscari cuts him off. "Stormcrows is a company made by freemen for freemen; we want compensation, not burden."

"Pleasure slaves," says another Good Master, with a belly so heavy it threatens to break his seat. "Yes, trained in the sixteen sighs and seven seats of pleasure, none in the civilised world can match their techniques. We'll grant…" The Good Master caresses his whip like a woman's thigh before answering: "A score of maidens for the captains and one for each man in your company."

A better term indeed, one that angers the other companies. "The Hell!? Those birds don't deserve them! The Titan's Bastard DEMANDS PAYMENT!" shouts Mero, thumping his fist on the carpet. "A hundred for myself or I'm breaking the contract!" Other captains follow suit, making demands more outrageous than the last. The scribes nearly break their quills trying to write it all down.

"And where, perchance, the thousands of pleasure slaves to come from?" Daario asks with a sharp grin, twisting the prongs of his beards in mischief. "From Yunkai?"

…

Silence.

Meereen wasn't the first city swallowed whole by the mist; Yunkai is now ruled by flies and worms.

The Good Masters whisper to one another, bringing over the Great Masters of Meereen as well. The warlock sinks into their seat as Hizdahr once again moves forth, looking somewhat paler than before. "Regarding the loss of our sister city," he says with a little cough, "the Free City of Volantis shall be aiding-"

If the shouts weren't loud before, they are now. Daario laughs as one after another captains draw their swords and shout curses in their various tongues. Some throw cups and cushions and slaves in anger; who wants the old tattoed whores of Volantis? With many storming out of the pavilion, the Tyroshi rises as well. "Where are you going?" asks Sallor. "We're not finished with our due!"

"Beg all the gold you want. I could squeeze more milk from a maiden's breasts than those slavers' teats," Daario sneers, "but you're welcome to try. Sallor, Prendahl." With a nod, the sellsword steps out of the smoky pavilion and into…

The pungent smell of blood stings his nose and eyes, prompting a coughing fit; the mist is thicker now. Stretching his hand, he can barely see it through the mist, let alone the other sellswords. Ride East, Daario thinks, ride til' the end of the mist. With quick strides, he tries to navigate between the tents and-

An old man in dull browns bumps into him, quickly apologising before leaving. But in that split moment, the Tyroshi notices the sad eyes, greying hair, and a clink of steel with every step. He's met someone like this once, however brief it was… "Old man," Daario calls out, following the gaunt figure deeper into the red. "I said-"

*SHINK*

*SHINK*

Steel meets steel as the two stare each other down, blades locked with caution. "Leave me be, cutthroat," the Tattered Prince warns, his longsword dripping with red. "Speak and I'll trim you to ribbons."

"From one butcher to another," Daario teases, flicking off the blade with his arakh before drawing his stiletto, their golden handles curving neatly into his palms. Though they'll do no good against metal plates, the old man is only dressed in cotton and wool. They will do just fine. "Daario Naharis means no harm, I promise. Only curiosity."

"Farce."

"How perceptive, captain of the Windblown," the Tyroshi grins, licking his lips. "My fellow captains said that you're recovering from injuries, but I see you move and react just fine. Tell me, why didn't you attend the meeting?"

"Since when are you cautious in meetings?"

"Since when do you know me?"

"My eyes are always sharp, Daario Naharis," the old man huffs before sheathing his sword. "I've no interest in the Ghiscarii's golds and whores, not now at least," he says, fixing the cloak to cover his nose and mouth. "I aim to live, something their contracts are not so amiable with."

Now that's something interesting. "You mean to break the contract, Tatters? Leave the Queen of Cities to mist and dust? Not that I care myself," says Daario, sheathing his weapons, "good never comes from the Harpy's brood."

"I don't intend to fight the storm, cutthroat, but ride it to greener pastures…" Tatters give him a studied look. His bones and muscles still hold strong for an old man, making him a formidable opponent. Perhaps seeing something in the Tyroshi, Tatters beckons him to follow. The two stay close, eager to not be lost in the red; even the blue-and-white stripes of the Windblown look no more than a pink-and-purple mess in the red.

All around them are empty stables and tents, with the stray dead body here and there. "Where're your horses, Tatters? And your men?" But the old man keeps a tight lip. "It's unwise to keep Daario Naharis as your sole company."

"We shall see," Tatters replies, opening a flap to his great canvas pavilion. A hand on his arakh, Daario enters and sees…

A woman.

There's a woman seated on a chair by the tent's main pole, sipping from an ornate ivory cup. She rises to her feet upon seeing him and says "Valar morghulis." The little bow of the head seems far too prim and proper for a slave, and neither is her warm smile.

"Valar dohaeris," Daario replies with a bow, keeping an eye on her whilst taking off his damp coat. He's heard rumours of the Windblown's 'Pretty' Meris, but this one is too pretty and unmolested to be her. Blue eyes and silver hair… Valyrian blood? You sure keep strange fellows here, Tatters. The sellsword eyes her chest and bodice, an unfamiliar dress of white and blue stripes so deep it may as well be black. Frills accentuate every curve, though the woman is not as well-endowed as he'd like. Her puffed skirt ends at the knee, giving a show of alluring lace and… Knives. At least a dozen strapped to each leg, and perhaps more on her upper thigh. Only one way to find out.

"So you're still here," old Tatters sighs. The man moves an empty chest near his table and begins to shove everything in: coins, papers, baubles, uncaring if they're even broken. The redness seeps through the pavilion's seams like a freshly cut wound. "This Tyroshi brute may be of some interest to you," he says to the woman, "five hundred riders in his company."

"Five hundred and sixty," the sellsword corrects, glinting his golden tooth. "The Tattered Prince speaks true, but any men with beating hearts will seem brutish in your presence, oh fair lady. It is a pleasure for Daario Naharis, counter of stars and plucker of dandelions, to be in your radiance." And with the introduction, he stretches for a hand to kiss.

…

The fair lady puts a coin on his palm with a smile, cold and copper. …Hmm? He examines the unfamiliar glyphs on its faces before flipping it into the air, catching it between two fingers. "Impressive," she commends, as one would do to a street-side fool. "Tell me, Mister Naharis, will you be able to perform?"

"…Whether it be a dance of steel or flesh, I'm indulgent of both, fair lady." Another flip of the coin and another catch, keeping an eye on her expressions. She seems sharper than most. "To think there's such beauty so near the Bronze Harpy… But I digress; I've not caught your name."

"Ah, apologies!" The woman bows deeply, letting her silver braids hang loose. "I am named Sakuya Izayoi, a servant to my mistress the Scarlet Devil. It is a pleasure to meet you, fellow human."

…A foreign name, a foreign coin. Hailing east of the Bones, he suspects. He's lived many years in the Lands of Long Summer, but yet to venture into the secretive lands of Yi-Ti, Leng, and those of singers and zorses. And the Scarlet Devil… "A beautiful name as any, Lady Izayoi. Though, I'm unsure why you-"

"She is my new contractor," old Tatters interrupts. The captain is now rolling up his rugs, revealing the still yellow sands underneath. With half of the tent now bare, he asks: "What do you make of him?"

There's no trepidation on the lady as she examines him up and down, poking with a finger here and there. Though Daario is no stranger to a woman's touch, he's more used to wanton nails and caresses, not a slaver's prodding. "Is my body to your-" but a single finger shushes him. She draws his weapons as well, the golden handles looking quite large for her slim and manicured fingers; when's the last time a servant has hands so clean? Satisfied, she stands back, foot-tapping in thought. "There is more to Daario beneath his flowers and steel, Lady Izayoi, but I fear closer examination is unwelcome in old Tatters' presence," he chuckles.

An important question must have settled on her lips as her foot stops and her brows furrow. The woman looks up to him and asks: "Tell me, can you juggle?"

With a flick of a wrist, he throws his stiletto into the air, letting it twirl before catching it by its golden handle. "Give me a sleepless night, my fair lady, and I shall dance with a dozen knives in the air. The stars and moon shall witness it all, so Daario Naharis shall never be known as a liar." Unlike you.

That performance left little impression on her face, though that warm smile returns. "Hmm, a fine quality. You speak nicely as well. And could juggle! Mistress loves jugglers." He replies to the compliments with a short thanks, wondering if the Scarlet Devil is a child. "Are you contracted to the humans of Meereen?"

"He is," old Tatters answers for him; the Tyroshi clicks his tongue at the gesture. The captain has done an adequate job of clearing the tent, and only now does he don armour; Andal-styled steel plates and a colourful cloak taken from dead men. "The Stormcrows act under three captains, the others being a Ghiscari and Qartheen. Convincing this one may be easy…"

"But that is all you'll need," Daario huffs. "Men like Prendahl and Sallor are bronze; soft and malleable, yet of no use in battle. My steel beg to differ, fair lady. However," he twists his beard, "a sword will need flesh to cut. Tell Daario our goal so that he may be of service."

"Everyone in this camp," says Lady Izayoi, a smile framing her cold eyes. "Other than both of your men, of course."

"Meris have led my men South, ready for an attack," says old Tatters, rattling a horn by his hip. "On my signal, they'll charge through the Cats' and Unsullied's encampments before the mist gets too thick. I suggest you do the same, or at least help with the clean-up."

"The mistress will delay the mist until then, Mister Tattered, as per our agreement. She does quite dislike having dead bugs litter her path," she says with a small sigh. "It would've been hard to do in such short notice, but your extra pair of hands certainly helps. For compensation, you may take what's in the city and follow us to see the Red Waste."

"…I'd advise against going into the Red Waste, Lady Izayoi. There's nought there but sand and bones," says Daario.

"Truly?" she asks with a cocked brow. "Oh my, the mistress does have an interest in its redness, but if what you've said is true…"

He notices a small twitch in old Tatter's eyes. Smirking, Daario adds: "A shame that old Tatters here have not revealed it for you, but that's to be expected. He's experienced, true, but even his colours will fade over time. Just look at his cloak, fair lady, and you'll see a thousand washings and more," he says, gesturing to the frowning captain of the Windblown. The Tyroshi . "Tell me, was Meereen to the Scarlet Devil's liking?"

"It's an acceptable city, though most of it is too sandy and crumbled for her liking. 'Queen of Cities,'" she repeats with derision. "Certainly, an exaggeration."

"The bronze harpy is polished and false, fair lady, but I know of a city that shines bright unlike any other. One with jewels encrusting its tower, where palaces stretch like rivers and visitors are showered with gifts. It'll fill your pockets as well, old man, so worry not," says Daario with a laugh. "We'll graze past the Red Waste for the mistress' curiosity, and with my guidance, she will be unharmed. There'll be finer silks and necklaces to grace her body, unlike the unwieldy tokars you'll find here and around Slaver's Bay. A true Queen of Cities. What do you say, fair lady?"

"I see… What is the name of this city?"

Daario's gold tooth shines beneath his smile. "Qarth."