A Feast for Dragons

wars.”
    The Tattered Prince gave a shrug. “Every turncloak has his
tale. You are not the first to swear me your swords, take my coin, and run. All
of them have
reasons
. ‘My little son is sick,’ or ‘My wife is
putting horns on me,’ or ‘The other men all make me suck their cocks.’ Such a
charming boy, the last, but I did not excuse his desertion. Another fellow told
me our food was so wretched that he had to flee before it made him sick, so I
had his foot cut off, roasted it up, and fed it to him. Then I made him our
camp cook. Our meals improved markedly, and when his contract was fulfilled he
signed another. You, though … several of my best are locked up in the
queen’s dungeons thanks to that lying tongue of yours, and I doubt that you can
even cook.”
    “I am a prince of Dorne,” said Quentyn. “I had a duty to my
father and my people. There was a secret marriage pact.”
    “So I heard. And when the silver queen saw your scrap of
parchment she fell into your arms, yes?”
    “No,” said Pretty Meris.
    “No? Oh, I recall. Your bride flew off on a dragon. Well,
when she returns, do be sure to invite us to your nuptials. The men of the
company would love to drink to your happiness, and I do love a Westerosi
wedding. The bedding part especially, only … oh, wait …” He
turned to Denzo D’han. “Denzo, I thought you told me that the dragon queen had
married some Ghiscari.”
    “A Meereenese nobleman. Rich.”
    The Tattered Prince turned back to Quentyn. “Could that be
true? Surely not. What of your marriage pact?”
    “She laughed at him,” said Pretty Meris.
    Daenerys never laughed
. The rest of Meereen
might see him as an amusing curiosity, like the exiled Summer Islander King
Robert used to keep at King’s Landing, but the queen had always spoken to him
gently. “We came too late,” said Quentyn.
    “A pity you did not desert me sooner.” The Tattered Prince
sipped at his wine. “So … no wedding for Prince Frog. Is that why
you’ve come hopping back to me? Have my three brave Dornish lads decided to
honor their contracts?”
    “No.”
    “How vexing.”
    “Yurkhaz zo Yunzak is dead.”
    “Ancient tidings. I saw him die. The poor man saw a dragon
and stumbled as he tried to flee. Then a thousand of his closest friends
stepped on him. No doubt the Yellow City is awash in tears. Did you ask me here
to toast his memory?”
    “No. Have the Yunkishmen chosen a new commander?”
    “The council of masters has been unable to agree. Yezzan zo
Qaggaz had the most support, but now he’s died as well. The Wise Masters are
rotating the supreme command amongst themselves. Today our leader is the one
your friends in the ranks dubbed the Drunken Conqueror. On the morrow, it will
be Lord Wobblecheeks.”
    “The Rabbit,” said Meris. “Wobblecheeks was yesterday.”
    “I stand corrected, my sweetling. Our Yunkish friends were
kind enough to provide us with a chart. I must strive to be more assiduous
about consulting it.”
    “Yurkhaz zo Yunzak was the man who hired you.”
    “He signed our contract on behalf of his city. Just so.”
    “Meereen and Yunkai have made peace. The siege is to be
lifted, the armies disbanded. There will be no battle, no slaughter, no city to
sack and plunder.”
    “Life is full of disappointments.”
    “How long do you think the Yunkishmen will want to continue
paying wages to four free companies?”
    The Tattered Prince took a sip of wine and said, “A vexing
question. But this is the way of life for we men of the free companies. One war
ends, another begins. Fortunately there is always someone fighting someone
somewhere. Perhaps here. Even as we sit here drinking Bloodbeard is urging our
Yunkish friends to present King Hizdahr with another head. Freedmen and slavers
eye each other’s necks and sharpen their knives, the Sons of the Harpy plot in
their pyramids, the pale mare rides down slave and lord alike, our friends from
the Yellow City gaze out to sea, and somewhere in the grasslands a dragon
nibbles the tender flesh of Daenerys Targaryen. Who rules Meereen tonight? Who
will rule it on the morrow?” The Pentoshi gave a shrug. “One thing I am certain
of. Someone will have need of our swords.”
    “I have need of those swords. Dorne will hire you.”
    The Tattered Prince glanced at Pretty Meris. “He does not
lack for gall, this Frog. Must I remind him? My dear prince, the last contract
we signed you used to wipe your pretty pink