A door led from Tyrion's bedchamber to a bathroom, where a small copper tub waited for him next to a raging hearth. The room also contained a privy, with a matching washbasin, both in decorated porcelain.

Tyrion climbed into the tub, one which he presumed was used to bathe the children. It was the perfect size for him. The water was hot and relaxing. The soap and oils provided were a welcome relief to his filthy stench from the last few weeks. He had to admit, he would be quite happy to live in a place like this. Even a more modest version.

As he soaked his aching bones in the hot, scented water, he envisioned a small property, built similar to the Sealord's Palace. He knew his five hundred gold dragons would not get him what he wanted and allow him the life of luxury he was accustomed to. He was going to need a business plan, one which would earn him enough funds to afford such a place.

His first instinct was to set up a brothel. It was inspired by Littlefinger, who was still a concern of Tyrion's, wondering why the man was visiting the Iron Bank. Most people didn't visit the bank unless they were borrowing, depositing, or withdrawing. Littlefinger was too wealthy to borrow, which meant he'd either put money into the bank, or took it out. Both were a cause of concern. Tyrion sighed, it was no longer his problem.

He soaked in the bath until the water cooled. The towels provided were warm after being placed on a rack near the hearth. Once dry, Tyrion returned to his chambers to find a tunic, a green robe, five books, and four carafes of wine. A plate full of food was also waiting. Chicken covered in spices, served with herby potatoes, accompanied by a multitude of vegetables. A jug full of sauce to pour over the meal was next to the plate.

Tyrion dressed and tucked into his food. The chicken was the best he had ever tasted, or so it seemed. Tyrion was aware he had eaten little over the last few days, and what he'd eaten before that was nothing more than pigswill. Anything would taste good after that experience. His lack of eating, also affected his appetite. For no matter how good it tasted, he could only manage a few morsels of each item.

He pushed aside his food and gulped down a goblet of wine. Dornish red, his favourite. Tyrion looked through the books which had been left behind. Most he had read, but one caught his eye. The subject was the Dance of Dragons. Tyrion was familiar with the subject, but there was something different about this book. It wasn't written by Grand Maester Munkun. The author's name was missing.

Tyrion climbed upon his bed, put a goblet of wine next to him and read late into the night.

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The following morning, Tyrion woke with a milder hangover than usual. He had been so emersed in his book, that he'd drunk far less than usual. Reducing his drinking, was always the sign of a good book, in Tyrion's opinion. It was a version of the Dance of Dragons, which he'd never heard of before, and was rather intriguing. If he hadn't known of the major events, he would have said it was a very different story.

Once he'd washed, cleaned his teeth with mint, and made water, he returned to his chambers where he found his clothes, washed and already dry. At least he'd look more presentable, and not covered in dried vomit, he thought.

Next to the roaring hearth was a table and chair. On the table was his breakfast. A selection of crusty, flakey breads, some with fruit in them. There were cold meats, cheese and butter. As well as preserves. He also spotted a strange brown substance which had a knife in it. When he sniffed it, the smell was the most delicious scent he'd ever come across. His stomach rumbled, crying out for food.

Tyrion dipped his little finger into the pot of brown paste and tasted it. It was sweet and milky, and the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He suspected it was ridiculously expensive, which was why he'd never come across it in Westeros.

Tyrion spread it over one of the flakey breads and ate it all, washing it down with a cup of sweet, milky tea. Mayhap living in Braavos wouldn't be too much of a hardship after all. It could even be considered an improvement.

Just as Tyrion finished his breakfast, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Tyrion called out.

The servant who had attended him the day before, entered the room and bowed his head. "Lord Tyrion," he smiled.

"I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Ricorno, my Lord," Ricorno replied.

"Ricorno," Tyrion nodded. "Am I to meet with Lord Ferrego today?"

"Indeed," Ricorno replied. "He has a proposition for you."

"Already?" Tyrion didn't believe the Sealord of Braavos to be so quick to find him a role.

"It is not my place to discuss such matters," Ricorno replied. "Are you ready, my Lord?"

Tyrion wiped the crumbs from his hands and face, and slipped down from his chair. "Lead the way, my friend," he offered.

Ricorno led Tyrion out of his chambers and down the corridor, turning enough corners which Tyrion would forget. They descended a flight of marble steps until they were on the ground floor. Tyrion looked out of the windows as they continued on their path, and based upon where the light was shining from, he suspected they were now at the other side of the palace to where he had entered the previous day.

Not that it was any less opulent. Far from it. Truth be told, the palace became grander. The statues were more risqué, as they depicted naked men and women instead of the more restrained versions at the entrance. The murals and tapestries were grander. Some depicting battles, others depicting sexual acts worthy of the greatest of brothels. Paintings on canvas also adorned the walls. However, these were more reserved. They were images of men, who Tyrion suspected were the previous Sealords of Braavos.

At the end of the corridor were double doors made of oak. Either side was a guard, most likely Unsullied, judging from the way they were dressed and the spear each held in their hand. Tyrion had never met an Unsullied before, but he'd seen pictures in books, and the attire matched the images.

The Unsullied opened the doors as Tyrion and Ricorno arrived. Ricorno led the way into the room, which was as opulent as any Tyrion had seen. The room was round and bright white. With alabaster columns, a marble floor and exotic Myrish rugs. Large windows overlooked the grounds of the palace. Tyrion could see a striped horse in the menagerie outside.

An enormous wooden desk dominated the room. Behind it sat Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos. It had been almost two years since Tyrion last saw him, and the changes were astonishing. He had heard the man was ill, but Tyrion hadn't prepared himself for Ferrego to look so frail.

Once bright and vibrant, Ferrego looked grey and old. He wore robes of purple, afforded to his status as the most powerful man in Braavos. However, that was the only colourful aspect remaining. His skin was sallow, his hair, which used to be dark and luscious, was now grey and wispy. His beard was still green, but it was much thinner than when Tyrion last saw him. The biggest shock was how thin the man had become. Tyrion could swear he'd seen more fat on a century old skeleton.

"My Lord," Ricorno bowed his head. "Lord Tyrion, as you commanded."

"Thank you, Ricorno. That will be all," Ferrego nodded his head, as Ricorno backed away and left them alone. Lord Ferrego gestured to the chair opposite him. "Lord Tyrion, if you would care to take a seat. There is wine, I believe you are partial to Dornish red," he smiled.

Tyrion climbed up on the chair and poured himself a goblet of red wine. He sat back on his chair and stared at Ferrego Antaryon. "You are most gracious, my Lord," Tyrion raised his goblet before taking a sip of the most impressive vintage of Dornish red. "Although, I must admit, I am rather confused. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you'd planned my visit. Even down to the pirates killing the men of the Nights Watch on the Storm Crow."

Ferrego sat back and laced his fingers together, a smile touched the edges of his mouth. "Even I cannot sail you from wherever you were attacked. My power is not so great," he laughed. "However, the moment I found out you were on your way here, I must admit, I thought my prayers had been answered."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at the man, who he suspected was not long left for the world. "You wish to ransom me to my family? I'm afraid they won't pay."

Ferrego laughed. "I doubt they would. How do you feel about your family and how they treated you?"

Tyrion had gone over his feelings for his family during his time alone on the ship. He loved Tommen and Myrcella, of that there was no doubt. Tyrion also loved his brother, despite all his faults. The main one being in love with Cersei, but even Jaime couldn't be perfect.

On the other end of the spectrum, Tyrion loathed Cersei. His hatred for her had grown so much, he'd considered ways to murder her. Flaying her had been the most appropriate of options. Tyrion should hate his father, and if truth be told, he couldn't stand him. But there was a small part of him that wanted to bring the man to his knees. Tyrion wanted to see Tywin Lannister grovel at his feet. However, Tyrion didn't want to give too much information away, he needed to be cautious until he knew what Ferrego was offering.

"It depends on the family member," Tyrion replied. "Like most families, I like some more than others," he took a sip of wine.

"I thought you might say that," Ferrego nodded and then coughed. Tyrion tensed up, had the Sealord been poisoned? If so, Tyrion would get the blame. Of that, he could be certain.

"Are you alright, my Lord?" Tyrion stupidly asked, fearing for the health of them both.

His worries were allayed when Ferrego rung a small bell next to him and an elderly man rushed into the room from a side door. He carried a small glass cup, containing brown liquid. The elderly man gave Ferrego the glass cup and the Sealord of Braavos drank the contents down. Moments later, the coughing ceased.

The elderly man poured Ferrego a cup of what looked like water and he gulped it down. Ferrego sat back and took a few deep breaths, looking exhausted from the coughing. He nodded his head and the elderly man retreated to the door he had emerged from.

"As you can see, I am not a healthy man. I fear the god of death will come to me before the year is done. I have many tasks to complete before I go. You, Lord Tyrion, are a man who I believe could be of a great help to me."

"Why me?"

"You are a man of common sense. A good negotiator, and someone who I believe would like to see certain members of your family dead."

Tyrion was shocked by the bluntness of Ferrego's words, but he had the right of it. "You want me to help you get revenge? What have my family done to hurt you?"

Ferrego laughed. "Nothing. I am not out for revenge."

"What do you want?" Tyrion asked.

"I was elected to serve Braavos by the magisters and the keyholders of Braavos. To do right by them," he said. "I was not born into this role. If I do not do my job properly, then the knives will come for me. Even now, I hear whispers of Tormo Fregar replacing me sooner rather than later. Which means I must honour the wishes of my people."

Tyrion frowned. "What has that got to do with me?"

"I need someone from Westeros. One who is a capable thinker. Used to the current political climate in the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion remembered seeing Littlefinger the previous day. "Have you asked Lord Baelish?" Ferrego laughed loudly. His face lit up, and he looked almost like he used to. "Have I said something to amuse you?" he asked.

"Forgive an old fool," Lord Ferrego shook his head.

"I don't follow," Tyrion said.

"Lord Baelish is part of the problem which needs to be addressed. The stupidity of Robert Baratheon and his alleged son Joffrey, have caused problems for certain quarters. I must ensure the problems are resolved. Anyway, I hear he is to wed Lysa Arryn. A love match, or so he claims. I do not believe Lord Baelish loves anyone more than himself. The only thing that comes close is money and power. Both of which, he wields a considerable amount."

"And if I hadn't been here?" Tyrion asked.

"I'd have found someone less suitable to the task."

"What is this task?"

"One where you will have the revenge you seek."

"I thought you didn't want revenge?" Tyrion knew Ferrego was skirting around the subject.

"The Iron Bank wants the Seven Kingdoms repayments to honour the loan repayments. I'm sure as the former master of coin, you of all people should know about the situation."

Tyrion wasn't sure how he could convince the people who wanted him dead to repay the loans, but it was clear the Sealord of Braavos had a plan. There was only one issue, which made the situation slightly more difficult than Ferrego predicted.

"We couldn't repay the loans as Lord Baelish took the ledgers with him to Essos. We were working blind."

Ferrego frowned. "Lord Baelish did not go to Essos. I had my spies searching for him. He sailed off and disappeared."

"He returned to Kings Landing with news of the dragon Queen in the east. That was when he provided the ledgers. I was unable to go through them as I was charged with regicide mere days later."

"Did he return to Kings Landing alone?" Ferrego narrowed his eyes and twiddling his thumbs. Tyrion could see something was troubling him.

"I believe he arrived with Lord Whitestark," Tyrion replied.

"Who is Lord Whitestark?" Ferrego asked.

"His name is Jon Snow. Initially believed to be the bastard of Ned Stark, but it turns out he was the natural born son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. He is wed to Sansa Stark."

Ferrego's face lit up. "Ah, the brilliant Lady Sansa. She has a good business head, on her for one so young. The fortunes of the North must have surprised those in Kings Landing. What with all the shipbuilding, investments into glass gardens, their wonderful cider," he smiled. "I'm sure the taxes must have been a great boon for the crown's coffers."

"Shipbuilding?" Tyrion frowned. "Why would Ned Stark build ships?"

"When you increase exports and imports, you need more ships. But for now, that is of little consequence."

Tyrion didn't think it was of little consequence. Lord Stark, Lady Arryn and Lord Tully, had all refused to swear fealty to Joffrey. The North was becoming richer, and Tyrion suspected Littlefinger was at the heart of it. Was war brewing? He wondered.

"We must finish this conversation a little later," Ferrego rang his bell. "I need to discover what Lord Baelish is up to," he frowned. "Did Lord Baelish attend King Joffrey's wedding?"

Tyrion nodded his head. "He did. But he was sat quite a distance from the King."

"When did he leave Kings Landing?" Ferrego asked as Ricorno entered the room.

Tyrion shrugged. "I was locked in the black cells," he said, realising what Ferrego was suggesting. "You think Lord Baelish did this?"

"Who can say?" Ferrego smiled before turning to Ricorno. "I believe Lord Tyrion would like to see the menagerie."

Tyrion didn't want to see the menagerie, but he knew he was being dismissed. Whatever he had told the Sealord of Braavos had either inadvertently provided information Ferrego had been looking for, or had raised more questions which needed answering before he could continue his conversation with Tyrion.

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Ricorno was the one to give Tyrion a tour. The menagerie was legendary, and Tyrion would have been a liar if he had said he didn't want to see it. He'd have just preferred to wait until he knew what task Ferrego wanted him to carry out.

Tyrion wasn't the most patient of men, but he knew when to wait for knowledge. This was especially true if Ferrego only having half a story would endanger him. And the one thing which superseded Tyrion's lack of patience, was his survival instinct. Therefore, he put his earlier conversation with Ferrego to the back of his mind and took in the sights and sounds of the impressive menagerie.

"Welcome to the Sealord's Palace in Braavos, a place where the wondrous creatures of the known world gather," Ricorno started. "Here, in this grand menagerie, you will find magnificent beasts and birds from lands far and wide. Braavosi ship captains, ever adventurous and curious, often bring back strange and exotic creatures from their voyages, gifting them to the Sealord's collection."

As they made their way around the menagerie, Tyrion noticed other servants who were tending the gardens. At first, nothing seemed unusual, until he'd come across the fifth one. Men and women alike, they all wore the same type of clothes. A dull orange, with a grey apron. The women wore skirts and the men breeches. A uniform, like in the Red Keep.

Tyrion looked to his guide. A man who he had taken for a servant. He wore a long teal overcoat, with matching breeches and knee-high black leather boots, of the highest quality. Ricorno was no servant. He was too well dressed. The servants wore linens, while Ricorno was dressed in the finest silk. Tyrion deduced, Ricorno must be Ferrego's right-hand man. One who knew everything that was going on, but reduced to that of a mere tour guide.

"I take it you know why I am being shown around," Tyrion said.

Ricorno cast him a knowing look, before returning to introducing him to the stinging manticore, which was housed behind a glass wall, like all the other creatures.

"Are all the animals in here dangerous?" Tyrion asked.

"Most. Some are friendly with the keepers and those they recognise. But these are animals who are third and fourth generations. They are no longer wild. If they were to be released, they would soon die, for they wouldn't know how to take care of themselves."

The tour was almost halfway through when Tyrion noticed a pattern amongst the creatures in the glass and metal cages. Most animal had around half a dozen specimens. Whereas ones which could create poisons, were in plentiful supply. There would be hundreds of them.

Was the Sealord of Braavos dealing in poisons? Tyrion wondered, after all, the faceless assassins were based in the city. Did he have a deal with them? The thought of it made Tyrion feel uncomfortable. If Littlefinger had been the one to kill Joffrey, had the poison come from Braavos? Tyrion pondered as one of the servants made their way over to them and whispered into the ear of Ricorno.

"It appears his lordship wishes for us to return to the meeting," Ricorno said.

With his mind full of worries of poisons, Tyrion knew, whatever Ferrego wanted from him, he needed to agree with. Unless it was as deadly as returning to Kings Landing. After all, what could be worse than that?

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When Tyrion returned to the solar of the Sealord of Braavos, the man sat behind the desk looked less relaxed than earlier. Something had happened, and he wasn't happy about it. As he took his seat, Tyrion wondered if Ferrego would share what he had learned.

"Lord Tyrion," Ferrego bowed his head.

"Lord Ferrego," Tyrion replied in the same manner.

"Now, where were we? Ah yes," Ferrego sat forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. "It appears Lord Baelish has left us earlier than planned. I was led to believe his return journey would start on the morrow. However, he has already departed and left with…." he pressed his lips together to form a thin line. "Never mind. Apparently, the storms are gathering in the Narrow Sea. As the Starks say, Winter is Coming."

"I can vouch for that claim," Tyrion told him. "The reason my boat crashed into the harbour was because the ship was caught up in a storm and knocked me unconscious. I woke just as the boats collided."

"It is most unfortunate that I cannot speak to Lord Baelish. I will have one of my men despatched to follow him. I wish to check on his whereabouts. I fear he may be the one responsible for the death of your nephew, although I cannot be certain," Ferrego said.

Tyrion wasn't bothered about Littlefinger. It mattered not whether Lord Baelish had killed Joffrey. Cersei would find another reason to have him killed. Tyrion was better off where he was, or so he hoped. He just needed to know what it was.

"What is the task you have for me?"

"Ah, eager to know," Ferrego laughed. "Alright. I need you to go to Pentos. There you will find a friend of mine. He is a Magister called Illyrio Mopatis. He will give you the instructions there."

Tyrion frowned. "Why can you not tell me now?" he asked.

"Walls have ears and drunken dwarves talk in their sleep," Ferrego replied. "I have already sent one of my most trusted men to see him. Illyrio will expect you."

"When do I leave?" Tyrion asked.

"Not until it is common knowledge that you are dead. I already have someone sailing to White Harbor. They will tell the tale of the Storm Crow and its sad demise. After all, nobody saw you disembark the ship. Everyone who knows you are here has been recompensed for their silence."

"Why White Harbor?" Tyrion asked. "Wouldn't sailing to Kings Landing and letting my family know first be the fastest way to tell the world?"

"White Harbor is closer, and the Storm Crow was supposed to take you to Eastwatch. If you weren't on it, we would notify the North first. Therefore, we must do what we would do if that situation arose."

Tyrion couldn't argue with the reasoning, however, the thought of sailing to Pentos as soon as possible appealed to him. It was warmer, which agreed with his constitution, unlike the cold, mist and fog of Braavos.

"When do I leave?" he asked.

"A moon's turn," Ferrego replied. "We need to ensure enough people think you are dead for them to not look for you. And we must make you look presentable. You only have the clothes on your back. You will need far more than that. Especially for the warmer weather. I cannot let you look like a pauper."

"Thank you, Ferrego. But, may I ask, what should I do during this time?"

"I would ask you to stay here for some of the time. If you need to indulge in further activities, I have a pleasure barge. I'm sure a man with your reputation will appreciate the nature of my barge," Ferrego smirked.

Suddenly, Tyrion wanted to stay in Braavos. Having a pleasure barge sounded like the perfect life for him. He could have a different whore every day of the week.

"What I'd they speak of my presence?" Tyrion asked.

"They won't," Ferrego replied. "I pay them more than any brothel would. It is the price for their silence. They know if they uttered a word of what happens on my barge, or who is invited, then they would lose their lucrative work. It is not in their interest to tell anyone about you."

That answer satisfied Tyrion. "Alright, I'll go to Pentos. I'll carry out your task, of whatever it is you need to do to get the Iron Throne to repay the Iron Bank. Now, where is that barge?" he grinned.