He was led in by two men, armed and armoured and silent as a pair of Silent Sisters.

He swallowed hard when they stepped into the high-ceilinged Hall, decorated with an assortment of noble tapestries and testaments to high birth.

He didn't swallow because he was afraid, he'd faced important men before and lived to tell about it, and it wasn't because he felt a part of him missing without the Twins on his hip.

No, none of that.

He swallowed because she'd been burned alive in a hall a lot like this one, and he'd done nothing but watch. The memory bubbled up, filled his vision. Her screams, her snarled curses, they bounced about in his ear.

The he shrugged. Winced it it off.

Settle down, Dornishman. Settle down. She's been dead and buried for years, no point going soft now. Eyes up, stand straight, you're here for a fucking reason.

Anders stood before the King of the Stepstones. Probably he owed the man his life, but Anders would try to wriggle out of any debt he owed the man. He was getting old, no time for debts anymore.

'Your... Eh, Kingship...' he paused. Was that even a word? He'd been a long time gone from Westeros, he had no clue.

'I'd go as far to say that Dorne as a whole would be outraged you put my name and the country's in the same sentence.' Anders grinned. Mostly feigned, though. His wound still stung. They'd cleaned it up, bandaged it, poked and prodded, but still it bothered him.

'I'll get down to it quickly. Last thing I'd want to do is waste your time. Root of the problem is, I lost my daggers. Funny looking things. Cold to the touch, doesn't matter how long you hold 'em. I promised I'd keep then safe. My best guess is that the Slavers lifted them off me, so I'd be grateful for any help you could offer.'