longships cut the water differently than southern vessels—lean, predatory, built for intent rather than comfort. Nyssa stood at the rail as the envoy was brought aboard, salt wind tugging at dark braids and the heavy fall of her cloak. She did not turn right away. Let Daisy hear the sea first—the creak of oars, the low thunder of waves against rocks—before deciding whether she was impressed. When Nyssa finally faced her, her gaze was level, unhurried. Curious, but not hunting. “You’re a long way from warm sands,” Nyssa said, voice calm over the wind. “Most who come north do it with demands or fear. You brought neither.” She stepped closer—not crowding, not retreating—enough that Daisy could feel the ship’s motion reflected in her stance, steady as a tide chart. Nyssa’s eyes flicked briefly to the horizon, then back. “I don’t keep guests below deck,” she added. “And I don’t mistake a meeting for a taking.” A beat. The faintest edge of a smile, there and gone. “If you stay on my ship, it’s because you choose to.” The sea spray caught the air between them, cool and sharp. Nyssa rested her forearms on the rail, open posture, leaving space where space mattered. “So,” she said quietly, inviting rather than claiming, “tell me what Dorne wants… and what you expect from a woman who lives by the tide.” Her attention settled, patient, waiting— your move.