GOT: Reborn as a Martell

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."

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