"Now," Deria said, setting her cup down. "Let us speak plainly. Rhaena."
"She is a cowed," Edric stated, his voice flat. "She is a mother, pregnant, with a young son. She will do anything to protect Baelon and the child she carries. She saw us execute her entire family and then offer her a crown. She will not be a problem. She will be a puppet, and she will be grateful for the strings."
"She will hate us," Nymeria countered, her voice as practical as her father's. "But she will fear us more. The contract will hold her. But her advisors... Lannister, Tyrell... they will test the chain. They will see how far they can pull it before it chokes them."
"Baratheon is the one who will break it," Brandon grunted, swirling his wine. "He's too proud. It's in his blood."
"Then he will die," Edric said simply. "And his house with him. The contract is absolute. If he plots with Rhaena, it will kill her. If he plots against her, Tommen Lannister will hand us his head on a platter to curry favor. He is a chained dog, barking at the moon."
Torrhen nodded, his gaze distant. "Lannister is the true power in the south now. He knows we do not want the throne. He will use Rhaena's crown to make himself regent, and he will use the reparations to leverage debt against the other houses. He is no threat to us, only to his neighbors. He will keep the Five Kingdoms in order, if only to fleece them more efficiently."
"Good," Deria said, a sharp smile on her face. "Let the lions, stags, and falcons peck at each other. We have more important matters. The dragons."
She looked at Edric. "Your uncle will 'study' them, you said. What does this mean, nephew? Dorne has paid in blood for the hubris of dragon-riders. We will not suffer it again."
"Uncle is a builder, not a conqueror," Edric said, his voice firm. "He has no interest in riding them. His interest is in their fire. He believes it can be harnessed for forges, to create steel that rivals Valyria's. And their blood... it has properties. He will not unleash them. He caged them at Moat Cailin. They will never again be used to burn cities. They are tools, now. Nothing more."
"A wise move," Deria mused. "A dragon's power is a curse. It burns the hand that holds it. Look at what it did to Aegon, to Aenys, to Maegor. They built this throne, and in the end, it consumed them all."
She leaned forward, her dark eyes intense. "Which brings us to us. We are now the two, true, independent powers on this continent. The world will look to us. The Iron Bank will send its envoys to Sunspear and Winterfell, not to this pigsty of a city. Our trade has been strong, but it must be stronger."
"We are family, Torrhen," she said, her voice softening, but losing none of its steel. "My son, Ares, and daughter, the next ruler of Dorne, Nymeria, are Stark blood. We are not just allies. We are kin."
Nymeria picked up the thread, her gaze on her uncle. "We need a formal treaty, beyond what my father has already forged. A pact of mutual defense. If Rhaena's whelp, Baelon, or the child she carries, or their child, ever finds a way to break that contract, they must know they will face Dorne and the North, united as one. One kingdom, one enemy, one front."
"The contract is absolute," Edric stated. "They will never break it. But the pact is wise. It prevents the Southern lords from attempting to play us against each other. A show of unity."
"I agree," Torrhen said, nodding decisively. "A Pact of Ice and Sun. We will draft it. Any military aggression, from the South or from across the Narrow Sea, toward Dorne will be met with the full, unbound fury of the North. And I expect the same in return."
"You shall have it," Deria confirmed. "And the reparations..." A sly, calculating smile crossed her face. "Twenty million gold dragons. Ten million for the North, ten million for Dorne. Alaric's innovations have made the North rich, good-brother, but this... this is a king's ransom. What will you do with it?"
"What Alaric has always done," Torrhen replied, a rare, proud smile touching his own lips. "We will build. We will expand the ports at White Harbor until they dwarf Braavos. We will build a new Northern fleet. We will strengthen every holdfast from the Neck to the Wall. And we will pour gold into the Broken Tower. Magic is the future, as Edric has proven today. We will have an army of sorcerers that will make the Valyrians of old look like hedge-wizards."
"And Dorne," Deria said, her eyes gleaming, "will rebuild what Rhaenys and Aegon burned. We will make the deserts bloom, not just with my Husband's magic, but with gold. We will fund a new fleet to patrol the Stepstones and build a new Water Gardens that will be the envy of the world. We will become so rich, the Iron Throne will be irrelevant, and so strong, they will never dream of looking south again."
The tent was silent for a moment, the weight of their new, shared future settling upon them. They had not just won a war; they had redrawn the world.
"A good plan," Brandon Snow said, finishing his wine. "Now, is there any food? All this talk of gold and magic is making me hungry."
Deria laughed, a genuine, ringing sound of triumph. She clapped her hands. "Of course. Let us eat."
The heavy political talk gave way to a more relaxed, familial meal. Servants brought in Dornish fare: platters of lamb roasted with peppers, bowls of olives, baskets of spiced flatbread, and plates of figs and dates. The wine was refilled.
The atmosphere shifted. The victors were, for a moment, just family. Brandon told a gruff, heavily embellished story about one of the Winter Wolves trying to ride a giant eagle.
Deria laughed until tears streamed down her face. She asked Torrhen about his wife, Maege, and his new granddaughter, Lyanna, and Torrhen's gruff exterior melted as he spoke of his Granddaughter.
Nymeria and Edric found themselves in a quiet, intense discussion in the corner, a conversation of peers. They spoke of magical theory. They were, perhaps, the two most powerful humans on the planet, and in each other, they found a unique, unspoken understanding.
The meal wound down as the sun, visible through the tent's opening, began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
King Torrhen Stark rose, his full height still imposing, his old bones weary but satisfied. "Princess Deria, Princess Nymeria. You have honored us with your counsel, your wine, and your table. This meal has been a fine end to a long, hard road."
Deria rose with him, clasping his forearm in the Northern style. "The honor is ours, King Torrhen. Today, we did not just win a war. We secured the future for our grandchildren."
The Starks nodded their farewells. Edric, Torrhen, and Brandon exited the warm, spiced-air pavilion and stepped back into the cool, crisp evening of the Northern camp. The direwolf banner flapped softly in the wind.
"Home," Torrhen said, his voice heavy with relief.
Edric nodded. "Home."
The next morning, the great hill outside King's Landing was a scene of departures. The Southern lords, grim-faced and silent, rode from the Red Keep with their small retinues, their banners held low. They had a broken kingdom to rule and a crippling debt to pay.
On the Dornish hill, Princess Deria and Princess Nymeria mounted their sand steeds, their two hundred guards forming a perfect, glittering column behind them. Deria looked north, toward the empty patch of ground where the Stark camp had been. She smiled, a quick, sharp flash of teeth, before turning her horse south. Their long ride home had begun.
Where the Stark camp had stood, there was nothing. No mud, no ash, no discarded supplies. Only a perfect circle of frosted grass, already beginning to thaw in the morning sun.
In Winterfell's solar, King Torrhen Stark, Prince Edric Stark, and Brandon Snow stood, the scent of pine and weirwood replacing the stink of the south. They had stepped through Edric's portal, their journey of a thousand miles complete in a single, cold step.
"It is done," Torrhen said, slumping into his great wooden chair.
"It is finished," Edric corrected, looking out the window at the grey, comforting skies of his homeland.
The war was over. The Age of Dragons was finished. The Age of Magic—of Ice and Sun—had truly begun.