anakin/speedforce: Jon does not want to be King, and Quentyn had no idea about the dragon shenanigans until the Aegon-Dany plot was already in motion.

Tom: No one here is breaking guest right.

Phillip: Whatever combination works. Arryn daughter to Targaryen son or the other way around. Same with Tully.

Needingalifegoal: Uh, not to that extent, Tyene isn't that smart.

dabrakadabra: Not a fan of the New Gift argument, I doubt the North's most fertile lands were grouped up in the Northernmost part of the kingdom. But yes, other than that, you make good points, Dany has no tact and it shows. Aegon is more diplomatic, but he's stuck between Dany and Connington who both run the negotiations to a standstill.

Zhorvak: Viserion is a weird case, but he does have some weak bond with Dany.

MrKlortho: Thanks!

Velitheos: If the Dance story takes off the ground, it will not be a self-insert, but a canon divergence story.

Roblo: Putting aside Jon doesn't feel a Targ at all, that's not bound to go well.

Sin Eclair: Thanks, I really tried to make every character be as close to canon as possible. Some thing people do forget, is that the Targs cannot make large concessions either, as it would weaken an already fragile position. Edmure is asking for A LOT, like half the Westerlands. This would create a monster to rival the Reach, and the Targs can't allow that to happen. Quentyn also did not expect the demands to be so steep when the Targ alliance has a net advantage.

itio: Honestly, Quentyn's alliance is everything North fans would dislike: Dornish, Essosi, Dany, fAegon, Connington, Golden Company...we're only missing the Lannisters in the mix, so I don't totally blame you.


Nymeria

Martell banners fluttered in the winds, overlooking the Mander, around the town of Tumbleton.

They were close to here, once, when they sought out Renly Baratheon, but never did Nymeria think she'd venture so far north.

Staring at the opposite bank, she narrowed her eyes. In the distance, she could see activity, with blue and grey tents being pitched under the ever darker skies over the Reach.

The cold wind blew her braid sideways, but she stayed still, trying to get a look at the famous dragon that had been brought from the North. But she saw nothing, the skies remained empty. Would they have been lied to? Surely not, some of the prisoners of the Battle of Kinrock swear they had seen the dragon rain down fire on their comrades underneath the walls of Riverrun.

Then, where was it?

With a sigh, Nymeria put on her black coat and headed back to her own camp, walking slowly as she did so.

Her father's passing had taken a toll, and nearly losing Quentyn too had almost finished her. She still wore black, in mourning, but slowly, she had begun to cope with it. She still had a mother, and her grief would be unmatched by Ellaria's or the young ones, no matter how many keeps Quentyn gave them.

She saw some commotion near Quentyn's tent, the large golden one, with double Martell banners floating above all the others.

She could see some horses with knights on foot, waiting for something – or someone.

Her curiosity peaked, Nymeria stepped towards the tent, under the gaze of the guards present, who did not impede her entry into the tent.

There, she saw Quentyn, sitting at his desk, facing two women, both clad in green.

"What is happening?" she asked.

Both women turned around, but neither seemed too distressed about her sudden appearance.

"See for yourself." Quentyn rose from his seat, handing her a letter.

Nymeria read it closely, and scoffed.

"The rats are cornered, and are looking for a way out."

"Watch your tongue, snake." One of the women stepped towards her, with no fear. "You'll see how hard I bite."

Nymeria smirked.

"Fierce, that little one," she said to Quentyn without skipping a beat, "are you sure you don't wish to wed that one?"

Quentyn let out a soft laugh.

"I made a promise, in the capital, when I left, to Lady Margaery. As long as I am not wed, I would still accept her hand, should she desire it to be so." He shook his head. "Her conditions though, seem unreasonable to me."

Both women bowed their heads, resigned.

"Listen, my ladies, I appreciate Lady Margaery's offer, but she makes a mistake in thinking that I would pass off Floris Flowers as mine own." Quentyn frowned. "She is not my blood, and will not inherit Sunspear. That is my word on the matter."

"And…without the child?" The other woman, whom Nymeria now saw held a small child. "As in…you wouldn't say it is yours, but you would keep her with you?"

Quentyn thought on it for a moment, and turned to Nymeria.

"It would solve a lot of our problems," he finally sighed.

"The Tyrell girl? I've said it before, she'd be too soft for our bed," Nymeria replied.

"She does not have to share it," Quentyn countered. "She'd only have to give me heirs. And, well, Jennelyn is in my service…"

"Hah." Nymeria smiled back. "You're taking me by the feelings, then. It could work, love, but…"

"But?" Quentyn asked.

"You'd need a large dowry," Nymeria replied without a second thought. "If the Reachers think for a moment they'd get out of this without a scar…"

"I doubt they will." Quentyn shook his head. "But as it stands, I have my little idea on the question of the dowry."

"Isn't she married, too?" Nymeria then asked. "To the boy-king?"

"That can be changed." Quentyn sighed. "As I said, it does fix our situation quite nicely."

"I'll leave you to arrange the details," Nymeria stated with a shrug, "but you'll see no opposition from me."

Quentyn turned back to the two women.

"Lady Elinor, is there any trusted person for you to convey my answer to Lady Margaery?" he asked.

"I can…" Elinor Tyrell began to say, but Quentyn immediately cut her off.

"Out of the question. The capital is not where you would wish to be, I can assure you of that. You'll be escorted to Highgarden and your cousin…once we are finished here." Quentyn tapped on the table. "As I said, is there any trusted person for you to convey my message?"

"Ser Arys Oakheart escorted us here, he's a loyal man," Elinor said, her head bowed.

Quentyn winced at the mention of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Arys thought he was escorting us for a negotiation mission," the other Tyrell girl said softly. "If you say that it is your answer and it is to be opened by the Queen only, then he'd do as told without a second thought."

"I don't doubt it…" Quentyn sighed with annoyance. "Well, if there is no one else, entrust this letter to Ser Arys."

"Will you wed her?" Elinor asked, whilst Quentyn put his personal seal on the letter.

"If she agrees to my conditions, I will." Quentyn nodded back.

Both women seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"And…me?" The woman with a babe in her arms asked, her voice so soft Nymeria could barely hear her.

"Well, if Lord Yronwood deigns to present himself here, then we'll see…" Quentyn looked at her with a pained expression.

It took a few more moments for the new young Lord Yronwood to appear in the tent, and his face, initially fully displaying his annoyance at being summoned, quickly turned to shock as he made eye contact with the young Tyrell girl.

"Lord Yronwood, nice of you to join us." Quentyn smiled. "Please meet your son, Samwell."

Nymeria enjoyed seeing Cletus Yronwood's cheeks turn red with embarrassment, while he walked towards the Tyrell girl, gently taking the babe from her hands.

"He's got your family's blonde hair," Nymeria amusedly remarked.

"As it stands, Lord Yronwood, you have two choices," Quentyn pointed out. "Either you wed Lady Alla right now and your son, Samwell Waters, becomes Samwell Yronwood."

"There is another option?" Cletus asked. "No, I do not wish to hear it, my prince. I shall wed Lady Alla, right now if needed."

He slowly handed the babe to Lady Elinor, and took Alla Tyrell's hands.

"If my lady would have me, of course."

Alla smiled weakly and nodded eagerly.

Cletus pressed a chaste kiss on her lips, and smiled back.

"We can postpone the wedding a little, but I'll at least give my approval on the betrothal." Quentyn looked at the two of them. "Lady Alla, does your father know of this?"

"You ought to ask him yourself, my prince, my father was part of Lord Tarly's host and we have not heard word from him since." Her face darkened at these words.

"I see." Quentyn bit his tongue. "I'll send word to Stonehelm on the evening. The prisoners should be there or at Summerhall. I doubt he would have much say in the matter, though if I am honest with you, my lady."

"Thank you, Prince Quentyn," Alla replied with a smile, taking back little Samwell in her arms.

"And you have my thanks as well, for saying yes to this wedding," Cletus replied.

"I am not so cruel as to deny a man's love, Lord Yronwood. Now go."

The three thus excused themselves, allowing Nymeria to take a seat in front of Quentyn, pouring herself some wine.

"How did the meeting with the two monarchs go?" she asked.

"As expected, they'll let Connington lead the negotiations, even though they'll open them," Quentyn replied.

"Connington?" Nymeria asked, surprised, while bringing the cup to her lips. "The man is too prideful by half."

"Indeed. I think the two monarchs will be too happy to lead the dance. In any case, they should be prepared to…steep asks."

"What do you expect?"

"Northern independence, Riverlander and Vale compensation for the war, surely. Small Council spots, if they are brave enough to ask for them…" Quentyn sighed. "I don't see them asking for more. Their position is fragile and they know it. I don't think they'd push for anything else."

"Good, then it would be easy to scale them back, though an independent North will not go well."

"That's a mild way of putting it. I may just have a compromise, though."

"You always do." Nymeria rolled her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that!" Quentyn laughed. "I just prepared a lot of things. I know they want peace as much as we do. But that's not the most important thing to me."

"Pray tell, what is?" Nymeria leaned her head on her hand, looking at him slightly mockingly.

"Arianne is with them."

Her expression immediately changed, as she nearly bolted up out of her chair.

"What?"

"It seems that Prince Daeron had led an expedition to Highgarden, and took the Dornish along with him back to Riverrun. Arianne was with that party." Quentyn looked down at the table, then back at her. "I expect he heard of Princess Sansa being held in Sunspear, and likely took Arianne and the Dornishmen to trade them for her."

"And she would be here?" Nymeria asked.

"That's what the herald announced, anyways," Quentyn replied.

"And you would trade Sansa for them?"

"Any day." Quentyn nodded. "I have asked for Princess Sansa to be escorted to Ghost Hill, ready to sail to Greenstone, then the capital if the winds are favorable."

Nymeria bit her lip. She also knew that Quentyn would rather have Arianne close to him, so as to keep an eye on her. Despite his popularity in Dorne, some other lords would have liked to set their sights on Sunspear, Willas Tyrell chief amongst them…

She took another swig of the wine, before a guard entered the tent.

"My prince, my lady. They have arrived."

Quentyn nodded, and immediately rose. Nymeria gently fixed his hair, and he helped her fix some of her braids, undone by the wind.

Before stepping out, Quentyn took his Valyrian steel sword, and sheathed it in its golden scabbard, which now prominently stood out thanks to the sun-shaped sapphire on the top.

They exited the tent hand in hand, waiting to go to the edge of the Mander.

It was there that Nymeria got a glimpse of the North's dragon.

A massive creature, almost double Rhaegal's size.

Its scales were a pale blue, and its wings were so large it made the bright blue waters of the Mander turn dark as its wings spread over it.

The ground shook as it landed, revealing a dragonrider on a saddle, like the Targaryens of old. Though the rider looked nothing like a Targaryen.

He was of equal height to her, with dark, brown hair, and a lean build, but that was all that she could see, before Drogon and Rhaegal landed in turn.

A few words later, they were on their way to the large tent in which negotiations were to be conducted, besides a ford, right under Tumbleton's walls.

Nymeria stayed behind Quentyn like a shadow, and had more time to observe the Northerners, notably Prince Daeron and Lord Edmure.

The latter was tall and with a well-kept auburn beard, a man who almost never smiled and was as impassable as ever. Prince Daeron contrasted this somewhat with his shorter height, but, in Nymeria's opinion, was much more handsome. His dark, brown eyes and grey eyes gave him a dangerous air, and no doubt many pretty maidens would've fallen for him.

Well, Arianne was not a maiden, but she'd fallen for him all the same. The looks they gave each other were a clear indication of that, if her cousin's swollen belly was not enough.

Nymeria did not approach her until the break in negotiations, though, when she finally fell into her arms.

"Cousin!" Arianne laughed as she nearly choked her. "It's been so long!"

"It's been a while, indeed." Nymeria laughed. "I see you've finally found your dark prince. A Targaryen, too? Will your children be as fair as dragonlords like you wished?"

Arianne punched her in the shoulder.

"Please, cousin, can't you be happy for me?" she asked.

"Oh no, I am very happy for you. You've chosen a very pretty man. Is he also…" she wondered.

"Yes, that and more," Arianne replied with a smile. "We are to be wed, soon."

"Well, hopefully Quentyn is not too cheap with your dowry." Nymeria smiled. "He cares for you, but the child you bear will be…erm…"

"Dangerous?" Arianne asked, the smile falling from her face.

Nymeria stayed silent.

"I've thought of that, too," Arianne continued. "But there is nothing to fear. Jon harbors no such ambitions."

"Jon, not Daeron?"

"He hates Daeron because it's not his name." Arianne sighed. "It's one that has been forced onto him."

"Well, whatever his name, I fear it matters little what he wants," Nymeria said. "Quentyn will still be mindful of it, though he does wish for your happiness."

"Let's start by trying to not make them kill each other first, no?" Arianne responded. "With what's coming?"

"Oh, you've become such a Stark that you have already adopted their words?" Nymeria chuckled.

"I'm not talking about winter, I'm talking about the dead, Nym." Arianne said.

"The dead?" Nymeria raised an eyebrow.

"It doesn't surprise you?" Arianne asked, confused.

"Strangely enough, Quentyn speaks of the dead and the Others from time to time. Not often because he'd think I'd take him for a madman." Nymeria narrowed her eyes. "And now you talk about them too?"

"I've seen them, cousin," Arianne explained, her voice strained. "I nearly fainted, too. The undead exist, and they are terrifying. They are walking corpses, with no mind other than to kill. They extend their bony, fleshy hands at you, ready to choke out the life from you and add you to their army of the dead…and the worst is their eyes. They are pale blue, even paler than Winter's scales. Staring into them makes you freeze as if they had turned you to ice."

Arianne's voice was panicked, scared, even. Nymeria had seen nothing like it. She bit her lip, and tried to make sense of it, but was interrupted by the Northern guard waiting outside, who told them that the negotiations had started anew.

She parted with her cousin, and went back to standing behind Quentyn, like a tiger hiding in the night, ready to pounce on whoever wished to harm his cubs.

The negotiations, though, went nowhere, and Harrold Arryn switching sides helped nothing. In fact, it might have deepened the Northern and Riverlander resolve, as Prince Daeron told his aunt to go fuck herself.

It didn't take long for the room to dissolve, quite literally. In the end, there was no one but Prince Daeron, Arianne, herself and Quentyn in the room.

"Jon," Quentyn almost begged. "We need to stop this madness."

Prince Daeron stopped for a moment, as he was ready to leave, and looked at Arianne, who had sunk into her chair.

"Aye, we do." Prince Daeron nodded at Quentyn. "There must be no battle."

"Then follow me, we need to talk. About the Others, and about our sisters." Quentyn showed him the way out of the tent.

Prince Daeron agreed, and grabbed a few of his own guards to escort him towards the tent Quentyn, Aegon, Daenerys and the Valemen had used during the recess.

Meanwhile, though, Arianne had taken ill, and while Nymeria had proposed to escort her back, Prince Daeron had told her that Ser Daemon could do that just as well.

Ser Daemon? As in Daemon Sand? Quentyn's eyes had flickered for a brief moment, though he said nothing.

Arianne thus remained in the room, whilst two men in dark cloaks entered. Prince Daeron nodded at them, and then left the tent.

It was a very short walk towards the red-colored tent in which the negotiations for the Vale's turnaround had taken place.

There was still wine and some bread on the table, and Quentyn and Prince Daeron immediately took a seat.

"You know about the Others?" Prince Daeron asked as Nymeria stood behind him, opposite a fierce-looking Northman with a long, white beard, tasked no doubt with ensuring nothing happened here.

"I've known for some time." Quentyn nodded. "Dreams."

Prince Daeron scoffed.

"Dreams…" his mind seemed to wander, "I wish my dreams could've prepared me for this too. But why did the Dornish not believe you?"

"How so? Because I said I had a dream about the Others, they'd believe me? Surely, no." Quentyn shook his head.

"We sent a hand south. It should have toured the Seven Kingdoms…" Prince Daeron objected.

"We saw the hand, indeed, but it is hardly proof," Quentyn countered. "No, we need real proof. If Lord Edmure has undead, we would need to see them."

"Aye, that can be easily arranged," Prince Daeron agreed. "But now that you know of the threat of the Others, you know that we must stand united. You could convince your King and Queen…"

"I can only advise, hardly anything else," Quentyn replied, offering wine to his counterpart, who refused it with a flick of his hand. "The King and Queen listen to counsel, and they take decisions depending on it. I could as well reply the same, with you and Lord Edmure."

"What terms would you present, then?" Prince Daeron asked.

"You know as well as I do that an independent North is a folly." Quentyn put both his hands on the table, leaning forwards.

Prince Daeron seemed to stiffen at that.

"Prince Quentyn, if you brought me here just to have me insulted again…"

"None of that." Quentyn raised his hand, slightly nervous. "But how would the North survive after cutting all ties with the south, after the war that awaits us? It is your kingdom that has bled so much already, from Ironborn raids to Robb Stark's war, who will take the brunt of the assault. It is mainly your men who will bleed, your people who will flee, and your keeps who will fall."

"We have grain, we will have gold."

"You do have grain, at least for a good part of the winter. As for gold, it seems to me that you do not own Casterly Rock, nor any Westerlander keep. Lord Edmure holds the Golden Tooth, but how long is he willing to bankroll you? With a royal match, the alliances will turn."

"We can reach Casterly Rock."

"Indeed, you can. But you cannot hold it before we reach there. With the Vale turning, and the submission of the Stormlands, you are outnumbered three to one, in dragons and in men. We will soon add the Reach to our side, how will you resist?"

Prince Daeron seemed to ponder these thoughts for a moment, then asked,"The North will refuse to bend the knee to a Targaryen."

"Then do not," Quentyn proposed. "Be their equal. Take the mantle of Prince Daeron Targaryen, gods know you loathe it, but it is the only way they will finally see you as a worthy opponent."

"Stark or Targaryen, what does it matter?" Prince Daeron asked.

"Because a dragon does not consider a wolf an equal. Only a dragon may be the equal of a dragon." Quentyn drew a breath, and continued, "If you negotiate equal to equal, you will not bend the knee. Ask for the North to be given the same status as Dorne. We are already semi-independent, and enjoy most of the advantages of the Iron Throne without having to feel most of the drawbacks."

Prince Daeron stared silently for a moment, and finally spoke up.

"It would still be bending the knee."

"You want to save your people? You have to take the tough decision. Your lords might hate you for it, but it is the best one," Quentyn replied. "Look, I see that you are annoyed by the Valemen, but Lord Royce was right. Torrhen knelt, but he saved the North from suffering Dorne's fate. The Dragon's Wroth essentially ensured that we wouldn't be a major power for three generations, and even then, Morion Martell squandered it for his futile quest of vengeance. You have a golden opportunity to save your people and ensure their prosperity."

Prince Daeron stayed silent, laying back in his chair, likely contemplating the possibilities.

"You think it would work?" he finally asked.

"I think it would be a hard sell for me, but I can convince King Aegon and in turn he can convince Queen Daenerys." Quentyn smiled.

"And Lord Edmure?" Prince Daeron asked in turn.

"Lord Edmure will be happy with his Westerlander keeps, and a position on the Small Council," Quentyn surmised.

"Have you thought about making him Hand?" Prince Daeron suggested.

Quentyn leaned back in his chair, a slight smile appearing, likely joyful to see Connington leave. Not that he was a bad Hand, but one that lacked a lot of tact.

"It could work, yes, I could discuss it. King Aegon wishes for peace as much as you and I, and Queen Daenerys will not mind to see Lord Connington step down."

Prince Daeron nodded to that. "I…cannot promise anything," he said, crossing his hands, "but the proposition in itself has the merit of being discussed."

"There is one more thing, though," Quentyn pointed out.

"What would it be?" Prince Daeron asked, confused.

"You cannot accept Lord Edmure's proposal of giving you a keep in the Westerlands." Quentyn promptly replied.

"Why?" Prince Daeron frowned.

"Because you exist, simply," Quentyn replied, shaking his head. "As long as you draw breath and have heirs capable of riding dragons, you are the biggest threat to King Aegon and Queen Daenerys' rule."

Prince Daeron's voice was curt as he spoke, "I would not turn against them." .

"But how can they be sure? Or how can they be sure that the Northmen will not grow sick of them after ten years, and plot to put you on the throne? How can they be sure that Lord Edmure does not fancy himself King, or Lord of the Westerlands, and use you, his vassal, to achieve his goals?" Quentyn asked. "Lord Jon, I will speak to you in all honesty, because I know this is what you would prefer. You cannot be far away from the monarchs; they will keep you close."

"I would be a hostage," Prince Daeron snarled.

"No." Quentyn shook his head. "You would be a Prince of the Realm."

"I am no Prince!" Prince Daeron stood up.

Quentyn just looked at him from below, his gaze unflinching.

"You are, no matter what you say. To Aegon and Daenerys, you will always be Prince Daeron. With your dragon, to everyone, you will always be Prince Daeron. Only the Northmen will see you as Lord Jon Stark. Your claim is weak, it is true, but so are both Aegon's and Daenerys'."

"I will not be a prisoner, nor will I accept Dragonstone or Harrenhal," Prince Daeron angrily replied.

"Then do not be. A Prince is no prisoner. Again, you are seeing this the wrong way. Be a Prince to them, but be Jon to you," Quentyn said. "A mummer's farce, yes, I do admit. But it is necessary. If you refuse, the realm will bleed, whether you wish it or not, in one day or a hundred years, but it will bleed."

"And what do you propose?" Prince Daeron scoffed. "To play a mummer's farce, in their capital, that nest of vipers?"

Nymeria twitched, but kept silent.

"I'd offer you Summerhall," Quentyn replied.

Prince Daeron looked at him, confused.

"Summerhall?" Prince Daeron asked. "It is a bunch of ruins."

"Summerhall was a keep given to me by King Aegon and Queen Daenerys," Quentyn simply said,."I could give it to you…as my sister's dowry. I would make sure you have a household guard, and I would pay to restore the castle. Aegon and Daenerys would be happy to have you just a week or two's ride or a few days' flight from the capital, and I and Arianne would be happy to be close to Dorne. Summerhall's lands are rich and fertile, and you would lack for nothing."

Prince Daeron seemed to relax at these words, and sat back down.

"Summerhall is…a generous proposition. If you would agree to restoring the keep, I would be inclined to talk to Arianne about it," Prince Daeron answered.

"If you would agree to this, I could also convince the King and Queen to extend Summerhall's lands further, and I would also personally dispatch a team of builders to model Summerhall after Sunspear," Quentyn continued.

"After Sunspear?" Prince Daeron looked confused. "You mean to decorate it in the Dornish style so Arianne would feel more at home?"

"Yes, but also installing proper bathrooms, running water, showers, flushing toilets, everything."

Nymeria repressed a laugh at how wide Prince Daeron's eyes went as Quentyn listed the new Dornish advancements.

"That is something that I need to discuss with her," Prince Daeron interrupted Quentyn's listing. "But speaking of Sunspear, we must talk about my sister."

Quentyn moved his seat forward, adjusting his position, leaning ever forwards.

"Princess Sansa is a guest at Sunspear, and I can assure you, she has been treated with the respect and comfort befitting her station. Not a hand has been laid on her," Quentyn assured. "However, her stay in the capital has been…marked."

"Marked?" Prince Daeron asked.

"The Lannisters were not kind to her. While her virtue is untouched, her mind and body, less so." Quentyn sighed. "We've done our best to make sure that these days are behind her."

"The Lannisters will pay, in due time." Prince Daeron nodded. "Though, I think you already have executed most of that vengeance."

"Indeed." Quentyn smiled back. "Which is why I will also argue for Cersei's head to be included in our agreement should the North remain in the fold."

"A most welcome proposal, but where does Sansa stand in all of this?" Prince Daeron asked.

"I would agree for Princess Sansa to be traded back for my sister." Quentyn frowned. "But I fear that this is not on the table. So, I will settle for the Dornishmen you hold."

"You mean to accept the dozen Dornishmen I have, in exchange for Sansa? Nothing else?" Prince Daeron looked confused.

"Nothing else." Quentyn shrugged. "You have nothing of real value to offer me. Gold? I have that. Grain? I have it too."

"Timber," Nymeria heard herself spout.

Quentyn turned around, looking surprised, but gave her a gentle smile.

"Timber." Quentyn nodded. "That is a good thought. Let us say, the weight of Princess Sansa, in thousands of trees? Over a long period, of course."

Prince Daeron looked thoughtful, and instead replied. "Hundreds."

"That sounds reasonable to me." Quentyn nodded with a smile.

"And when can I expect to see my sister again?" Prince Daeron asked, his gaze unflinching.

"I'll send a raven to Sunspear as soon as we are done. I shall have her put on a ship in Ghost Hill and brought to Greenstone, then Storm's End, and from there to the capital, once it is taken," Quentyn replied. "Good weather permitting, of course."

"Then I'll release your Dornishmen whenever Sansa is brought," Prince Daeron countered. "Though, will your monarchs agree to this?"

"Princess Sansa is none of their concern. They have no say in how I wish to release my…"

"Hostages."

"I'd have said guests, considering Princess Sansa seems to be taking a liking to Dorne, but yes."

"I shall not debate on pointless words, though, have we discussed everything?" Prince Daeron then asked. "I'd rather you were in charge of the negotiations; we would have had peace in no time."

"I would have liked it that way too, but I fear that all I can do is counsel." Quentyn sighed deeply. "My own counsel which is being drowned out in the shouts of victory…"

"Aye, I've tasted that too," Prince Daeron agreed.

"One more thing, before I forget." Quentyn bit his lip. "Your children will have to forfeit their claims on Sunspear, of course."

Prince Daeron stared at him blankly for a few moments, but agreed to this too.

"Now, comes the difficult part." Quentyn sighed as he stood.

"Whatever do you mean?" Prince Daeron asked, confused.

"Right now, King Aegon and Princess Daenerys are preparing for battle, and not many things will let them back down, let alone the news that I negotiated with you in secret." Quentyn shook his head. "It will be hard to convince them to leave it. Though I have some idea."

"How will I know that you've succeeded?" Prince Daeron asked.

"If we are to give battle, it will be on the field next to Tumbleton, when both battles of the Dance occurred, surely," Quentyn explained. "I have no doubt that you will be atop your dragon, at the hour, and so will our own. If you see white smoke coming from the woods, then it means that there will be no battle, and I have succeeded."

"And if not?"

Quentyn took a deep breath, and looked at him with sad eyes.

"Then I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."

Prince Daeron and Quentyn shook hands, and the Prince left the tent with his large guard, as silently as he had entered it.

"Do you believe in this peace?" Nymeria asked Quentyn.

"I cannot do anything else than believe in it," her lover just replied, running a hand through his hair, "because I do not know what I shall do if it does not happen."

"There will be fire…and blood." Nymeria warned.

"There will be screams, tears and shouts," Quentyn replied in a low, ominous, voice. "And the only winners will be the dead."