The sun had yet to rise. Groaning as he sat up, Tyrion managed to accidentally pull a blanket off Arianne's thigh and bunch it around her elbow. She gave a discomfited murmur and stirred a bit. Gods, how am I going to get that back on without waking her? A bit of deliberation later and his wife was comfortable enough to roll over and sleep on. Absurdly, Tyrion found himself hoping he had done right by her, even in the short time that had transpired. Sitting here in the dark will do me no good, he thought. Brooding is for northmen. He made to lay back down himself, stopping when he saw that the door had opened, the darkness of the corridor the sort that made children wonder what lurked just beyond. It was grumkins and snarks when I was a boy, Tyrion mused. It was only when Cersei had once told him that the monsters would more likely mistake him for one of their own than attack that he lost his fear of them. Now it was Cersei out there in the corridor, an endless force of light-pursed footpads at her disposal. Give me grumkins and snarks any day. Hells, I'd even take a direwolf. Then there was movement out there, Tyrion wide awake at once. Though there was no forthcoming perfume of exotic spice, the figure slipping into the room could only be Chataya. A wedding present from the Red Viper? It was hardly the sort of thing Tyrion could envision an uncle giving a niece on her wedding night, but then again Tyrion had learned to expect more sense out of his shoes than out of Oberyn Martell.

"My lord," she called in a voice he could scarcely hear, "you are wanted." There was no sensuality to it, no baiting promise. Fetching me on behalf of another. I wonder who. He slipped out of bed and waddled over. He was about to beg her pardon, there was hardly a dwarf-sized night shirt about, but she put a finger to her lips. Nodding grimly, he followed her out into the corridor, mouth tightening as the warmth of the bedroom was left behind. The warmth of my wife as well. He turned for a last glimpse of her. There was quite a big part of him that wanted only to waddle straight back to bed, but the game was apace, and he was not one to go without his part in playing it. Ah well, dwarf, he thought morosely. At worst, you never had a chance to make her hate you. It was a pittance the gods allowed him, but even a pittance could over time grow to fill Casterly Rock.

They had gone down two flights of spiraling stairs before Chataya next spoke.

"We ought be able to speak now, my lord, if you are quiet." Tyrion knew better than to ask who had sent her, he'd find out soon anyway.

"Why did you leave King's Landing?" he asked. Chataya, most unexpectedly, stopped in her tracks.

"When Alayaya was thrown out of the Red Keep, it drew eyes. To her, to me, to my brothel. We may have been on certain minds before then, even, if you'll recall the sorrowful tale of a girl born within the walls of my establishment."

"Barra. One of King Robert's bastards, I remember." "Just so. Rather than wait for further ills to befall us, more a when than an if given your trial, I supposed we would be safer to set sail for lands outside the grasp of House Lannister. Your sister or father might have put us all to the sword and no one would have batted an eye or lifted a finger in protest." Her words were not an accusation, but they stung all the same. If the gods are good, someone will wring a scream from Cersei just for all she put Yaya through.

"You supposed correctly, I have no doubt." Tyrion wondered if Chataya had left anything for the wretches of King's Landing to loot. Most likely not, but no building with a stone foundation will long go vacant in the capital.

"Are you here at the prince's invitation, as I am?"

"Oh, no. We merely stopped for a respite, a taste of Dornish fortune before continuing on."

"Ah. You're going home, then."

"Indeed. Well, I am. Alayaya was born in King's Landing, it's past time she saw the Summer Isles."

"And the rest of your girls, they're going too?"

"They have little reason and less to stay. When one of noble birth turns against you in Westeros, it's best to seek friendlier shores." And what friendlier shores will a Summer Islander find than the Summer Isles?

"I can only apologize for the Hand's actions, and the queen's." "Queen Margaery has done nothing to us. As Robert is dead, your sister is no more a queen than I am." Tyrion snorted, the sound echoing most unhelpfully off the dark stones of Sunspear.

"You tell it true. As it happens, it appears Cersei will be busy fending off suitors from all sides for a good while. If you are not acting on behalf of one princely brother or another, what are you doing pulling me away from my wife on my wedding night?"

"I am a free woman, my lord. I act on mine own behalf, and on Alayaya's, and my other girls'. Though, if a prince asks me if I might do something I find agreeable, why would I say no?"

"Of course. As you said, birth counts for rather a lot here."

"Rather than what one comes to be. Anyway, we're here." She led him through a tapestry and down a last slippery staircase. Below, Tyrion could hear the lapping of waves. Looks like I'll be getting that visit to Lys after all. Or wherever the gods have put Prince Quentyn, at least. Several people stood in a sandstone cavern that it seemed opened to the sea. If the gods are good, somewhere above me Arianne is still sleeping. Prince Oberyn waited in a common sellsail's patched threads with only a few men about him, each unquestionably Dornish as they were otherwise unremarkable. There were no lordlings, no paramours, nary a Sand Snake to be seen.

"And I was just settling down." Tyrion said, as someone stuffed him into garb that might have been fit for cleaning a chamber pot. Something long and thin poked him, hidden in a thick leather pocket of sorts. The dagger Oberyn gave me.

"That's when grand adventure always starts, my lord- when one's buttocks find most restful purchase." The Red Viper had put aside princely wear, but there was no hiding who he was.

"Yes, well, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can return." Wherever 'there' is.

"As you say. We'll be off momentarily."

"Have you bid your paramour farewell, or your daughters?" Tyrion dared to hope the sphinx in Prince Oberyn was not so early a riser as the viper. Alas, his hopes were dashed.

"Have you thus bid your wife? Or your stalwart worthies?" Tyrion groaned. "Fear not, my lord. You shall find them come to no harm when we return to Dorne." He looked to Chataya. "Indeed, they will find no complaints with such accommodations as I have in mind for them."

"Put aside such thoughts, my prince. Chataya is smarter than we are, she seeks only to be quit of Westeros and its never-ending lordly quarrels." Even the Red Viper seemed a bit put out by that revelation.

"Truly? A great loss, then. Can you not be persuaded to stay, good lady?" Chataya pursed her lips.

"Lannister gold can sharpen the dullest knives, my prince, and no one will weep over a few dead whores."

"Lannister gold and knives both have no place in Dorne. Should you remain, you will be well cared for." Tyrion was struck by an idea.

"Should any of your girls be of the mind to give up whoring, my niece would appreciate the company of girls from King's Landing. Her Dornish companions are lovely, but her gentle heart must miss home." It wasn't quite a bald-faced lie. The ladies Myrcella was surrounded with were lovely to a one, though Tyrion was rather certain his niece no more missed her days in the capital than he did his.

"Whores waiting on a princess?" Prince Oberyn sounded positively inspired.

"How scandalous, my lordly lord. Whatever will the septas say?"

"Why do they need to know from whence Chataya and her girls come? As for a septa's notion of purity, I've had a look at your Vylette. If she's a maiden, I'm a mammoth."

Despite the choppy waters and the slow rise of wetness soaking into his mismatched boots, Tyrion could not help feeling a bit better. The Red Viper might have been every bit a snake, but he would uphold his word on Chataya and her girls.

"You seem curiously at ease, my lord." Oberyn observed.

"Why should I not be? Even if this boat were to flip, here and now, I would drown knowing mine affairs are settled. Myrcella has Trystane to wed, Bronn will be given the tiresome task of minding some of the loveliest girls this side of Westeros, and Pod will stutter a lot as Yaya and Dancy and Marei traipse past him."

"Ah, yes, the lovely Marei." The viper's eyes flashed.

"How would you know? As I recall, she was the only one of Chataya's girls you didn't fuck."

"As I recall, I told you the Lannister look holds little appeal for me."

"You seem glad enough of my comp-" Tyrion was midway through his jape when he heard the implication behind the prince's words. "The Lannister look?"

"Blonde of hair, green of eye…granted, the characteristic haughtiness wasn't there, but then that comes from raising, not birth."

"Surely, my prince, you don't think a single whore in an upscale brothel is evidence enough that I'm capable of siring children."

"You are no more than ten years her elder, my lord."

"Then what in seven hells are you getting at?"

"Whores are such merry creatures, quick to giggle, easy to amuse. It seems that as long as you have coin to give them, they have smiles to give you. Not so with Marei." Tyrion felt as though a giant had stomped on him.

"You cannot be serious."

"You Lannisters may wear lions, but you fuck like rabbits. I should only be so thankful your brother spends every arrow in his quiver on a single target." He watched Tyrion's jaw bounce off the bottom of the boat, looking a deal pleased with himself. "I daresay Marei isn't the only one. For all his chiding you on carrying on with whores, one might find a number of nuggets of gold left in your famed father's wake." The air was cool and whenever they crested a wave Tyrion got a bit of a splash, but it was true cold on his mind, a light snow on his shoulders as he remembered his days in the company of the Night's Watch. Old Mormont had been growling something about dwindling men, dwindling supplies, dwindling most everything. Tyrion tried to put on an attentive face, but his wits had wandered…and across the yard, grinning obscenely at the straw men the brothers used for archery practice, had been a young man with a tumble of golden curls and a mouth that might have passed for two bloodworms fucking. News of Bran had come moments later, before Tyrion could really process what he'd seen, who he'd seen, but the Red Viper's words shook sense out of the whole mess.

"There may be just one nugget at Castle Black, an archer with Joffrey's hair and most hittable face. Older as well, of an age with Marei, I daresay." Oberyn did not seem surprised in the least, even shrugged at Tyrion's words. And my lordly lord father had the gall to tell me I would turn Casterly Rock into a whorehouse. Had I the time, had I the coin, I might turn the westerlands upside down to find a brood to rival Walder Frey's.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what we're about, even now on the open sea headed to Essos."

"This is hardly open sea, my lord. Were I to throw you overboard, you'd most definitely live long enough to hit the seabed before you drowned." He made no mention of whatever else was in his mind, though Tyrion had spent too much time by half in the company of ambitious men to think a jape was all Prince Oberyn was thinking on. Who's to say he ever tells me? It might well be he just wants someone to make the journey east a bit less tedious. Someone to feet this crumb, that crust to just to study their reaction.

"As you say. I find I'm not of a mind to test your theory just now, and so we'll let the matter lie. If you'll allow me, my prince, I'd like to ask what you intend to do about my family in the capital should all your schemes reach full bloom." Oberyn Martlel made a face.

"Blooming is for Tyrells. As for your family, well, it would please me pink to serve Lord Tywin from the same plate I served Ser Gregor. Cersei, in all honesty, is aught to me, though the realm would undoubtedly be served well should her head vacate her shoulders and take up a post on one of the Red Keep's spikes. As for puissant King Tommen, I believe I've already voiced my opinion on such a matter." Tyrion recalled it well. If he cares not Myrcella is no child of Robert's, why would he mind if it were just as true of Tommen? He had not mentioned it at the time, he had yet to see the care with which House Martell had cared for Myrcella and Tyrion had wanted nothing less than to break her betrothal. Now, with the Red Viper's feelings on his niece and nephew clearer, and rather more cordial than Tyrion might have supposed, he felt it better to be more direct.

"If I may ask without peeling back too many layers, do you then intend that Tommen should live as well?"

"Oh yes, my lord. He is a Lannister through and through, and those of late tend to come in handy."

"And his marriage to Margaery Tyrell?"

"Your nephew, alas, is wasted on any daughter of the Fat Flower's. However, his son is not near so much a fool. You might find a mind much like yours in Willas should ever you meet him. He will not take it so ill that his little sister loses her crown but keeps her head. The Lady of Casterly Rock is an enviable position and one safer by far than the one she currently endures." Tyrion scratched the hole his nose had once been. He plans for Tommen to get Casterly Rock. It was clean, in its way. Simple. Though Tyrion's fishing for a Martell marriage for Myrcella had been, in his estimation, a deal more elegant, it would more than serve. And the Tyrells may well have the Red Viper to thank that they're excised from the struggle over the Iron Throne.

Aside from a single shabby sail and its larger size, the vessel was cut from the same cloth as the rowboat that had carried Tyrion out of Sunspear's hidden cavern harbor.

"Not quite how you expected to cross the Narrow Sea? Perhaps a lovely pleasure boat out of Lannisport, bedecked in red and gold?"

"Hardly. As you've no doubt noticed, my prince, I am a small man. But for my arms growing tired, I might have hopped into a bucket and paddled my way across the sea in fine style." We are mummers now, playing the scum that call the Stepstones home. We must sail as they do, aboard ships of much the same sorry shape. Prince Oberyn smirked.

"Even a king among pirates would happily scoop a bucket full of dwarf out of the wash. Such queer superstitions they have in the wider world about dwarves…"

"Oh, joy. A new litany of jokes and japes for me to learn. Color me exultant." Tyrion replied, shrugging in his soaked rags. "You did pull me away from my most lovely wife for a purpose and not on a lark, did you not?"

"And deprive my beloved niece of her devoted husband? Surely, my lord, you think me more sensible than that. Fear not, you will have ample opportunity to get up to all the scheming that was denied you during your captivity." So schemes will play their part. There was nothing to be gained from squinting east and pretending he could spot the difference between sea and sky, so Tyrion busied himself with stepping down the ship's sagging steps to get out of the chilly air. After a quick peek around for any red-eyed rats, he waddled past a few worm-eaten barrels to find an empty crate. Needs must, he mused dully, crawling beneath it. About as dry as I'm like to get. And as comfortable. But for the Red Viper's schemes, I might be waking up next to Arianne right now.

Despite his less than desirable accommodations, sleep found him in short order. Someone was pulling the crate off him with a belly laugh, guffawing stupidly while he blinked. Well, it can hardly be helped. Chataya woke me in the black of night and had me climbing all through Sunspear, pardon me for catching up on sleep. Whatever oaf was looming over him was no Red Viper, but only when Tyrion caught a glimpse of salt-stained jerkin knotted by a few ratty strands over a scarred chest did he realize what was going on. Pirates already? Small chance they'd lingered off the coast of Dorne, but why sail so close to the Stepstones? And what pirates are desperate enough to give a leaking chamber pot like this a go? The pirate gave him an enthusiastic poke, as if to prod him into doing some impish mischief. Tyrion mumbled something most dispiritedly, shuffling back to the steps. Even under his slight weight the wood groaned and creaked, the thought enough for him to shake off the last of sleep. They'll give out and soon beneath the weight of a normal man. On the sagging deck, he beheld a number of like men milling about the deck with a rather more seaworthy-looking ship having come up alongside. The viper was talking to their captain, a man whose face had fled his head for a briar of scars to flourish on.

"Oh, now you lot have done it. Rousing a dwarf is never a good idea, haven't you heard? They're trouble from brow to boots." he said on spotting Tyrion, grinning his Dornish grin.

"And good morning to you. Who are our esteemed guests?"

"Illustrious merchantmen all, with impeccable pedigrees."

"Where, still aboard their ship?" Tyrion pointed to the pirates' ship. "All I see about me are scum a barnacle wouldn't deign to spit on." For some reason, this seemed to greatly amuse the pirates, chortling or even laughing aloud.

"A man uglier than what comes out a horse's backside when it has an upset stomach ought be a bit more gracious, says me." A man so fat his bare belly hung past his waist like a too-full purse called as several of his comrades pooled back up their gangplank.

"Who's you who says? A bloated seal carcass squeezed into dyed pants?" Tyrion replied. The pirate lumbered over, deck squealing in agony beneath his feet, until Tyrion and the clumsily wrought gold ring jutting from his navel were of a height. Another hoop dangled from his right nipple, glinting through his too-small vest, and he had a hawk nose Tyrion could have stood under to keep out of the rain. Though, considering what's like to come out of there, a little rain never hurt anyone. The man was bald as an egg, though his head seemed to be wavy, and his skin was sickly pasty white. Peering out from over his horror of a nose (though, at least he has one, Tyrion thought) were a pair of beady purple eyes. "Gods be good, had the Valyrians known Lys would produce such as you, they'd have burned the colony to the ground and salted it for good measure." Tyrion said. The man grinned, showing a mouthful of mismatched teeth. An amethyst, an emerald, some clear thing full of a white milky substance…

"I am Urucho, called 'the Ugly', captain of Lady's Favor."

"Which lady is this? A blind one, no doubt, with no more nose than I have if your breath is anything to go by."

"A puddle of brown water has some straw tossed on it, all of a sudden it thinks its words are worth its breath." Urucho said, pointing at Tyrion's lank blonde hair. He turned to his crew. "I am thinking we've lingered too long. There are no maidens to despoil, no goods to seize. We will be off, yes, for warmer and friendlier waters." He led the last of his men up the gangplank, one Tyrion saw was no mere jut of wood but more akin to a tower shield, one reinforced with iron. Oberyn sidled over.

"A dwarf has a gift for making friends in the lowest of places."

"Have I?"

"Oh, yes. Pirates, though on the whole an ignorant and suspicious lot, view a man who can run his mouth with even some artistry as someone of import. Maybe it comes from having to keep entertained on long voyages or waiting for a trade ship to wander by. Trading insults is one such method." He followed the pirates up the plank.

"Oh, if it's insults this Urucho wants, I doubt I'll run short of them anytime soon." Tyrion said, waddling to keep up.