It had been a weary, sun-bleached fortnight on Dornish sands. Nymeria had watched her exhausted people pitch their first tents, dig their first wells, and begin, tentatively to hope. She had expected Dornish steel to appear at any moment, for this land had rulers and petty kings aplenty. And when word reached her that the lord of these coasts marched toward them, she had donned her armor, ready to defend what remained of her wandering folk.

But instead of a warhost, a lean column approached—banners of the sun-and-spear fluttering, weapons sheathed, riders calm. At their head rode Mors Martell, not charging, but coming as one who seeks parley.

Nymeria stood at the dunes above the settlement as he dismounted below, offering a courteous bow instead of a threat. Her captains tensed, hands on spear shafts. She raised a hand, steadying them.

Soon, the two stood face-to-face inside a pavilion hastily erected for the meeting, her Rhoynar guards on one side, Dornish knights on the other. The air smelled of salt and wind, the walls of canvas snapping softly.

When at last she answered, her voice was calm, even regal despite the long years of exile.

“We have wandered too long, Prince of the Sandship. My people seek only a home.” She lifted her chin, showing authority, yet seeking compassion for her people. “We have men of many crafts, women who seek husbands and children who need a safe home. I think our people become stronger together than against eachother."