Grey-black smoke rising to the east was Tyrion's first taste of Astapor in person. Mutterings on deck had him putting out fires of a different sort. The Windblown were famed enough when it came to fighting Essos' endless circular wars, but the prospect of a dragon loose overhead cooled even the hottest loot-hungry head among them.

"What would draw a dragon this far south? Daenerys has long moved on. It's the flux you ought to be minding, or at least the city you mean to sack. Elsewise some freedman will spill your guts on your mismatched boots and shit on your corpse for his trouble before he vanishes into the hinterlands." Tyrion said, loud enough to carry across the deck.

"The fuck does a dwarf know about dragons?" one of the sellswords asked.

"Fuck dwarves, fuck dragons, and fuck what dwarves know about dragons." Caggo barked, red-faced and black-tempered. "I know that our holds had best be full and more by the time we sail on for Yunkai." That was enough to quiet the uncertain muttering, but Tyrion could see the doubt in the men's faces nonetheless. The Tattered Prince stood at the bow of the ship, giving nothing away as to how he felt about his underlings' discomfiture. Tyrion waddled up to him, not bothering to clear his throat to announce himself. Sellswords seldom waddle.

"Something rather thought-provoking has occurred to me." Tyrion said.

"Has it?"

"Have the Yunkai'i mentioned what ought be done about any highborn captives taken at Astapor?" The Tattered Prince snorted.

"If you're thinking we might make a pretty bit of coin ransoming the Red City's nobility to the Yellow's, think again. The slavers hate Daenerys, to be sure, but nearly as much do they hate each other. Yunkai wouldn't spare a full latrine bucket to guarantee the safety of any Astapori we come across, noble or otherwise." He turned to Tyrion, blinking at his untroubled expression. "Or was ransoming them never part of your mischief?"

"I'd have thought our little talk about your future lands would teach you that gold is not the only boon to be squeezed from an opportunity." That got a raised brow from the sellsword.

"Oh? I didn't know desperate slavers could be so milked."

"Desperate noble slavers. This side of the Narrow Sea…hells, this side of the world, I must take what comes and leave no crumb to fall by the wayside." The Tattered Prince gave the shadow of a smirk.

"What little mention the dispatches made of Astapor's Good Masters suggested nothing of merit."

"Meanwhile Yunkai's Wise Masters, no doubt, stand as paragons of martial acumen and benevolent rule." Tyrion replied matter-of-factedly.

"One among the House of Nakloz seemed to be cursed more often than the rest, his name unfailingly followed by spitting in the mud." Nakloz, Tyrion thought, committing it to memory.

"Any others?" "The House of Ullhor owned a butcher named Cleon who managed to become king of Astapor. For a fortnight, anyway."

"Kings come and go." Tyrion agreed with a nod. "If only more men realized a crown does little to keep knives out of one's back, they would be more circumspect in donning them. Who does hold Astapor?"

"This killer, that whore, each surrounded by their own knives. I would put aside any thought of negotiating, my lord. I am not sailing to Astapor to set it to rights." No, Tyrion thought. One seldom hires sellswords to keep the peace.

The situation only grew direr as they neared the Red City. The smoke rose blacker and corpse-stink joined the sellswords' reek already present in the air.

"Commander." Caggo called, the Tattered Prince off without another word. "Bloodbeard's banners." the Dothraki said, pointing to the shore. A bevy of spitting over the side of the ship began.

"A friend of yours, I take it." Tyrion said, trying to keep up. He's old, more than twice my age, Tyrion thought, what right has he to be more graceful than I? "A bloody-handed brigand, and barely that." The Tattered Prince replied distastefully. Tyrion was no stranger to enmity, mind busily buzzing with half-formed notions. Surely I can turn such mutual loathing to mine own benefit. Before he could approach the Tattered Prince on some pretext, he spotted Oberyn Martell giving him a knowing look from the doorway belowdecks. Resignedly, Tyrion made for the stairs, expecting a telling-off.

"I've never been one to believe in portents," the viper said as he followed Tyrion down, "but it seems to me all signs point away from Astapor."

"It's not as though I'm tugging Tatters' sleeve to stop off for a visit." Tyrion replied. "I was merely inquiring as to the state in which we can expect to find the city."

"Talk of the flux ought have told a man as professedly smart as you all you need know."

"Oh, I'm sure Astapor is a shambles and worse, burning to the ground a brick at a time. That doesn't mean its citizenry needs to burn with it, though."

"We can scarcely go before Daenerys accompanied by Astapori. Were I her, I'd have a question or two about why Westerosi have accepted my enemies into the fold."

"So would I, were they enemies in the first place. Loren was Aegon's enemy one day and his leal lord the next. These Astapori will not even have crowns to doff or realms to surrender."

"Only because he was lucky enough to survive the Field of Fire. Meantime, Mern and all his house were not so fortunate."

"That's the beauty of my thinking." Tyrion said grimly, climbing into his hammock with a look at Prince Quentyn and his companions. "Only the living need be asked if they want to live."

"Are we nearly there?" the young prince asked.

"If the smell of corpses left to lie and the sight of smoke black against the sky are any hint, we ought arrive within the day." his uncle said brusquely, though his eyes were on Tyrion.

"Don't imagine you'll be going any further than the deck rail." Tyrion told Quentyn flatly. "There's a whole host out there investing Astapor. Yunkai's armies don't require a frog's assistance, no more than the sellswords already present do."

"Which banners did you see?" Ser Archibald asked. Tyrion heard a hint of the boy within the big bald man, the sort to ask after all the banners gathered for a tourney.

"The Tattered Prince made mention of a Company of the Cat." Tyrion replied.

"Heard more than a bit about them in Volantis. Their commander's supposed to be the sort steered clear of." That the big knight would forgo pride told Tyrion his feelings on the matter.

"Volantis was full of rabble calling themselves sellswords and members of the Windblown, I'd hardly expect to hear anything else in such circumstances. As it happens though, I'm inclined to agree with our host. The less time any of us spend ashore at Astapor, the better." Oberyn intoned.

"Don't have to tell me twice." Ser Gerris said, emptying a rusty tankard. "I didn't leave Dorne to bake on Astapori bricks or catch some slaver's pox."

"Or a looting sellsword's mace." Oberyn said behind him. "I doubt the Yunkai'i will much be pleased the Windblown are so late."

"We're not here at their pleasure, thank the gods. A sellsword as unsavory as this Bloodbeard is sure to chafe at following some Yunkish ponce's commands if he's worth the spit the Windblown waste on him, no matter how much gold he's been paid." Tyrion pointed out.

"Are you looking to woo him as well, then? Or has my lord had second thoughts on recruiting the Windblown? Your own father had his catspaws in Walder Frey and Roose Bolton…" Oberyn said.

"Thank you, I feel ever so much better." Tyrion replied flatly as the boys-called-men in their presence tried to keep up.

"Bloodbeard has a thousand swords more behind his banner than the Tattered Prince, though the Windblown field more horse."

"Three thousand extra swords wouldn't go amiss, especially when we get around to going home. However, if the Company of the Cat is to feature in any scheme of ours, then this Bloodbeard will have to go. Westeros has more than its share of bloody-minded men. There's no call to go importing from the Free Companies." Tyrion said.

Astapor was, if anything, in worse shape than Tyrion had imagined. Velos had been lush greenery and comparative quiet (at least until the monkeys had noticed them) while Astapor was an anarchy crossed with a collapse. Tyrion saw men running about on the ramparts, the odd flight of arrows loosed falling well short of the Yunkish lines. Yet more plumes of smoke were rising into the sky from behind the city's crumbling walls. Why wait for us? Astapor is a corpse. The Yunkai'i could take the city quite unassisted and seize every bit of plunder for themselves. Perhaps they really are so incompetent. That notion had Tyrion's mind whirring all over again. If I've read the Tattered Prince correctly, he'll be perhaps embarrassed to have to stoop so low. Behind him on the deck, Prince Quentyn looked by turns aghast and ill while his companions wore the same distasteful grimace. Oberyn had yet again become a sphinx.

"All the better we should remain on deck. Even better, below deck." Tyrion declared. "There's wine and mine own countrymen to make merry with." He waddled past the younger Dornishmen. They'll scarcely agree to follow a dwarf, but should the Red Viper do the leading…ah, there they come. Back below, Tyrion busied himself with some amber vintage, somewhat surprising Prince Quentyn when he held it out to him.

"Drink, my prince. You look ready to keel over, and that will need seeing to before you stand in the dragon queen's presence." When he did not take it, Tyrion leaned forward to push the cup into his hand.

"Did you see that place? A lower, deeper hell I could not think to know, and made that by Daenerys Targaryen-"

"Hogwash." Tyrion replied briskly. "This was no dragon's doing. All I hear of these slaver cities is that they're pus-filled boils, screaming for a good prick. Daenerys was just the hot needle so applied."

"Easily said, from one who was not here-" It was good Quentyn had at last found something of a spine, but Tyrion was not much in the mood to burnish the young prince's ego.

"-tell me, my prince, do the walls of Astapor still stand? Wretched as they are, do the Astapori still linger behind them? Yes, they do. They would not if Daenerys had seen fit to raze the place and move on once it was thoroughly pillaged, as a khal might do. It was slavery she sought the death of. How could she have known the bloody flux would scythe through Astapor and make her own treatment of the city seem tame by comparison?" Fire may be a fault one can hold against dragons, but they hardly breathe flux.

The sounds of the Windblown moving off the deck and the decks of the ships around them made being heard a fool's hope, but for not so long a time as Tyrion dreaded.

"These are disciplined men." he observed. "It's glad I am that not all sellswords are the flea-bitten brigands that come to mind on our side of the Narrow Sea."

"These Windblown are hardly brigands," Oberyn agreed, "and if my lord finds them impressive, he ought behold the Golden Company. The Blackfyre Rebellions tempered them into almost a kingdom in waiting."

"They can keep on waiting." Tyrion replied. "Juggle too many eggs and you end up with yolk on your face." Ser Archibald snorted in amusement despite his disposition toward him. None of the three young men seemed much eager to join in the coming sack, which spoke of wisdom to Tyrion. It will be chaos and worse, and despite these brave heroes' attempts at adventure, they are still highborn. They lived comfortable lives in Dorne, for the most part, even Ser Gerris. They are not suited to dealing with true anarchy.

"Do you think the Tattered Prince will truly go out of his way to secure the safety of a few highborn Astapori?" Oberyn asked, while Tyrion looked for the water barrel.

"He will or he won't. It strikes me as handy to have the last sprigs of an ancient noble house or two on hand, though. I pray he shares the thought."

"As hostages?"

"These slavers hate each other, or so Rags told me. The Yunkai'i will not ransom Astapori, but no matter. Simple coin was not what I had in mind." Though, what I do have in mind even I can't seem to fathom. A knock at the door pulled Tyrion from his half-formed plans. "Who is it?" Tyrion asked guilelessly. In came the Tattered Prince, looking unamused. "Well, how do we fare?"

"A bleeding haunch of beef would give stiffer resistance than the squatters and rabble behind Astapor's walls. I've wiped enough blood and shit off my boots in my life to decline another serving from the same platter." He sounded as out of sorts as he looked.

"You did mention that Astapor was in a sorry state."

"The Yunkishmen led me to believe that Astapor was more than a plague colony." Tyrion pursed his lips.

"It would seem your misgivings about Yunkai are well-founded, then." How fortunate that you should see such with your own eyes. "Would the commander care to pull up a chair, then, and wait for the plunder to roll in?"

"I'm not sitting down, and neither are you." The Tattered Prince's disgust subsided, replaced by determination. "We're to sail on to Yunkai when this farce is concluded. Until such time as I see one of these Yunkish lordlings piss in his own eye, I'll go at least that far." Tyrion caught immediately the sellsword's meaning.

"Well, while you're at Yunkai, where might we be?" he asked. As if I didn't know. Still, it will be good for Rags to say it aloud and affirm it in his own mind.

"You will sail on to Meereen with our friends from Dorne, hidden in the midst of Windblown of Westerosi origin." A convenient way to turn your cloak when you've had your fill of Yunkai.

"Officially, the Windblown are riding with the Yellow City. Why would Meereen entertain a contingent of such?" Oberyn asked.

"You won't be going as Windblown. It seems one of the companies loyal to the dragon queen is looking for fresh meat to swell its ranks before battle joins at Meereen. There will be your way in." the Tattered Prince said.

"Well and good, but what does Daenerys Targaryen care for a few more sellswords? How do we get an audience with her?" Quentyn asked from his corner of the cabin.

"Lad, look who you're travelling with. Causing a scene is no less a specialty of your uncle's than it is mine own." Tyrion told him.

They readied while the returning Windblown thundered onto the deck above them.

"Some sound drunk." Ser Gerris said.

"And more will be come time to divide the spoils. Tatters seems to have chosen the perfect time for us to slip away." Ser Archibald replied, busily lacing up his boots.

"Won't we be missed?" Quentyn asked.

"Not by anyone with wits enough about him to keep his mouth shut around Caggo." Tyrion replied, pleased with himself that what thirst he felt for wine before a merry bit of mischief-making was less than it had been in past years. Not so much a sot after all. The sounds of victory gave way to snoring shortly after casting off, and when the Tattered Prince sent for Tyrion he found countless Windblown sleeping off what wine they'd taken from Astapor. I do hope it wasn't poisoned. Slipping into the commander's cabin, Tyrion beheld a doughy man sporting half a dozen burns, some on the road to healing and others newly acquired. With him were a terrified-looking girl about the same age as Sansa Stark clutching a babe to her chest, the boniest woman he'd ever seen with a frightful vulture's beak of a nose and a little boy leaking tears and snot in equal measure.

"All that remains of Astapor's great families." the Tattered Prince called, not bothering to look up from the map on the table. "Brightwater Keep had best be worth the trouble, my lord."

"Wait until you see the castle for yourself." Tyrion said, stepping over to the Astapori. The fat man was breathing heavily, but after spending time in Robert Baratheon's presence Tyrion knew he was not sucking air due to injury. "Do any of you speak the Common Tongue?" Tyrion asked. At once the bony woman pushed the girl with the babe forward, squeaking in fear for her trouble. After a few queries it was clear she had no more Common Tongue than the rest. Likely just flung into the fire. Tyrion mused for a bit before he snatched some parchment off the table and a quill from beside the Tattered Prince's hand. When he showed the Astapori the High Valyrian his boyhood maester had taught him, the fat man squinted at it carefully. "You'd be more than a little helpful in this matter." Tyrion told the sellsword.

"Would I?"

"As if I haven't heard you utter curses in High Valyrian a half-dozen times. Ask him his name as well as the others' if he knows them." The Tattered Prince sighed. The flurry of speech that followed left Tyrion hopelessly lost. Reading and writing a language is one thing, speaking it is another.

"He purports himself to be Zorys mo Nakloz. The lady is Aymaz mo Nakloz, his brother's widow and the boy is Yzor mo Nakloz, a grandnephew."

"And the girl and her babe?" More High Valyrian, this time with rather a more indifferent tone.

"He doesn't know. Apparently, she came from the pyramid of Ullhor." No noble daughter, that much is plain.

"Were there no others?"

"The rest of the household had drunk poisoned wine, or so my men tell me. They only found this waif and the babe when they were pulling down tapestries and the like." A thought occurred to Tyrion. He waddled before the girl, not bothering to try calming her. The gods scarcely shaped me for such to begin with and Ser Mandon Moore only compounded on their work.

"Ullhor?" he asked, the girl shying away as much as she dared. Then he pointed at the babe she clutched and repeated his query. This time she gasped, turning away to show him her back. Zorys and Aymaz muttered under their breath, sounding engaged.

"Well, well." the Tattered Prince said. "It would seem the House of Ullhor has my lord to thank for its survival past today."

"Assuming the babe lives, but either way you ought to see this girl taken care of. Not every child is so brave or so loyal." Tyrion replied, again reminded of Sansa Stark.

After Zorys' burns had been seen to by one of the company healers and the Astapori were fed, Tyrion persisted in the use of the Tattered Prince's assistance.

"You have Daenerys Targaryen to thank for your lives." he told them. At the mention of her name, Zorys snorted and winced while Aymaz bared her teeth in a sneer. Still, less fight than I expected.

"Daenerys brought death to Astapor, its great families ruined and cast down." Zorys relayed Aymaz' words.

"Slavery was ruined and cast down. It seems to me the House of Nakloz has no need to join it in the abyss. No more than the House of Ullhor does." He regaled them with tales of the Field of Fire. Talk of dragons and fire by turns earned Tyrion a spate of curses, but it was the fates of the Two Kings he wished to press upon the surviving members of the House of Nakloz. "Mern and all his line died that day, or near enough as makes no matter. King Loren bent the knee, though, and lived, and his house lived after him. Doing fairly well despite being uncrowned, I'll add. Aegon the Conqueror wrote an end to the age where every man who stood highest on a hill in Westeros could call himself a king. Daenerys has done the same with slavery. It is for you to decide if you would rather choose the route Mern chose, or the road mine own ancestor walked." His nuance did not seem to much move Zorys and Aymaz still less so, but Yzor could not help but listen and the babe, if he lived, would not remember the House of Ullhor's slaving days anyway. So much the better. Tyrion left them to think on his words, the Tattered Prince accompanying him onto the open deck where his Westerosi-born compatriots waited, the Dornishmen among them.

"Turning enemies into friends?" Oberyn asked, grinning.

"Turning enemies into enemies of a different sort, rather." Tyrion replied.

"How long is the voyage?"

"No longer than our swim from Sunspear to Lys, and off the open sea as well. Who can say, in a scant week you might behold the dragon queen and dragons proper." Oberyn told him as they walked down the gangplank to a smaller, swifter vessel.

"The gods seldom favor me so well. Were I you, I'd prepare for some mishap to befall us on the way. Perhaps a kraken will spring up from the bottom of Slaver's Bay for a quick prod and leave us derelict and sinking miles from shore."

"My lord should look at things more sunnily. Your salvaging what could be saved of Astapor will surely pay dividends in time. Loren never rose again once he knelt, the Field of Fire must have been quite a lesson."

"It remains to be seen. From what accounts I've read have told me, Loren the Last was a bit of an overproud cunt."

"A Lannister, an overproud cunt?" Oberyn said, eyes wide and mouth open in shock behind his hand. So that's where Tyene gets it from. I hope she hasn't killed Bronn. Yet, if nothing else. "Just so, and that from sources biased in his favor." Tyrion said. He caught a glimpse of Quentyn watching Astapor burn behind them.

"And to think, my prince," he said, "that we were on the winning side."