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Chapter Text

Early 270 AC

The fall was not from a cliff or a tower, but from the back of a galloping sand-steed.

They had been racing across the dunes beyond the Water Gardens. Oberyn’s laughter echoed in the wind, loud and wild, like he always was when they slipped away from their guards. Mors leaned forward on the saddle, widening his lead on his cousin, Manfrey, while pushing his mount to catch up to Oberyn. His mount caught an unseen dip in the earth and stumbled. Mors was thrown.

There was a crack.

He didn’t get up.

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They carried him back limp and bleeding, sand in his hair, his eyes closed. The guards didn’t meet each other’s eyes. Maesters worked in silence. Elia paced the corridor outside, her hands clenched while Manfrey stayed silent in a corner. Doran stayed in the room, his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Mors’s chest.

By nightfall, they weren’t sure if the boy would live. Elia didn’t sleep that night. Neither did Doran. Oberyn didn’t come inside at all. He trained with Manfrey until they collapsed from exhaustion, then rose and trained again.

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On the third day, Doran sat beside the bed, his head bowed.

The air was thick with silence. Mors had been breathing—barely—but unresponsive. A low candle flickered beside him, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Elia lay asleep with her head resting on the edge of the bed, exhaustion etched into every line of her body.

Then, Mors stirred.

“You’re awake,” Doran said, voice low and taut, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment. He leaned in slightly, eyes wide, watching for another sign.

Mors blinked. His mouth felt like sand.

“…What… where?”

Doran straightened, startled, then eased down closer again. “How do you feel? Can you move? Can you feel your body?”

Mors winced slightly, his voice rough. “Feels… heavy. Everything… heavy.” His eyes settled on Doran. “…You… Doran? Yes. Doran.”

A slight smile broke across Doran’s face. Relief washed through him.

“Here, drink some water,” he said, lifting the cup carefully and helping him sip.

When Mors finished, Doran let out the breath he’d been holding for days. “I’ll get Oberyn. He’s been in the training yard all day. He blames himself.”

“Why?” Mors rasped.

Doran paused. “He challenged you to the race. Since then, he’s done nothing but train. He hasn’t forgiven himself.” A beat passed. “Mother arrived from Sunspear yesterday. She’s been—very worried.”

Mors’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features.

“Do you remember anything?” Doran asked gently.

Mors fell silent for a moment. Then, slowly, “The race… yes. I remember now.” He glanced down beside him, seeing Elia still asleep at his side. He looked back to Doran. “Elia… right?”

“Yes,” Doran said softly. “Your older sister. She’s been here since the first day. We’ve all taken shifts. But she wouldn’t leave.”

Mors reached out weakly, brushing his fingers through Elia’s hair. He looked back toward the ceiling, fingers twitching as if searching for something lost. “I’m remembering… tell them I’m fine.”

Doran’s face tightened. “…You nearly died.”

“Did I?”

There was no drama in the question, just curiosity.

Doran rose to leave, but paused at the door. He glanced back once more, the weight of days heavy in his eyes.

“We thought you wouldn’t wake.”

And then he slipped out.

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Later that day, after Mors had woken from another nap, Oberyn came in with Manfrey covered in sweat and dust. His shirt was soaked through, hands blistered from overtraining. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at Mors as if unsure he was real.

Then he punched Mors lightly in the arm.

“You reckless fool,” Oberyn muttered.

“That’s rich coming from you. Besides, I recall that it was you who challenged me,” Mors croaked.

“I didn’t think you’d actually try to win.”

Mors gave a weak smile. “Neither did I.”

Oberyn sat and dropped his head into his hands. Manfrey remained standing close, his expression tight. “I haven’t slept. Haven’t stopped training either. I thought I killed you.”

“I’ve seen—and felt—the result firsthand,” Manfrey muttered with a wry smile.

“Oberyn, You didn’t,” Mors said. “And if I’d died, it wouldn’t have been your fault.”

“Tell that to my head,” Oberyn muttered.

“Then tell your head to rest.”

Though still troubled, Oberyn Chuckled, “You sound like Doran. Why does it suddenly feel like you’re the older brother?”

Mors shrugged. “Do I…maybe the fall knocked something loose.”

Oberyn looked at him again, more carefully this time. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Me too. I thought you were dead when you hit the ground,” Manfrey offered.

Mors held their gaze. “That race didn’t count.”

Oberyn snorted. “Fair enough.” He paused. “We will look into a rematch after you get better. Just be ready to lose again.”

“I won’t.” Mors replied with a grimaced smile.

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By the next morning, Mors was walking slowly through the gardens. He paused at the fountains more often. Not to admire them—he was listening. Feeling.

Something was different. His senses felt more alive, more active. He started paying attention to everything around him. To how the wind moved. To how people walked. To the way water curved when it hit stone. There was a rhythm to the world he hadn’t noticed before, and now it sang to him like it always had and he had just never known how to hear it.

His instructors noticed first. He no longer interrupted lessons. He no longer rushed through drills. He’d always been sharp, but now his focus was unshakable. Almost like he suddenly matured.

When the Septa asked about the Rhoynish wars, he recited dates and alliances with precision she didn’t expect. He traced out the politics of Nymeria’s voyage in chalk before she could turn the page. His mind was share, too sharp almost. He coult tell the difference, because one day he remembered being one way and the next different.

When the master-at-arms told him to sit this one out, he refused. When instructed to strike, Mors didn’t charge. He waited. One breath. Two. Watched. Then moved.

And landed it.

“Again,” the master-at-arms had said, this time with narrowed eyes.

And again, Mors waited, read the weight of his opponent’s front foot, the drop in his shoulder—and struck before the blow ever came.

After a couple of days, word began to spread. The youngest son of Princess Loreza had changed. Some said the fall knocked sense into him. Others whispered darker things. Elia slapped one of her handmaidens for repeating such talk.

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“You’re not as loud,” Elia said that night as they sat in the courtyard, watching the sunset spill gold across the stone. Her hand was in his. She passed him a fig but didn’t take one for herself. “I should be happy about it… but I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Mors’s gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful. “I’m not sure either. Maybe I’m just tired… still recovering.”

“Maybe,” she said softly. “You used to laugh first, stumble second, then laugh again. Now… now you think first.”

“Really?” he glanced at her. “I hadn’t noticed. Huh. That’s… weird.”

He turned back to the sky. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Things that never made sense… suddenly do.”

Elia tilted her head slightly, concern in her eyes. “Is your head still hurting? If there’s anything—anything at all—you need to talk about, don’t hold it in. Come to me. Always.”

She reached up and stroked his hair gently, pressing a kiss to his brow.

“I… I will, sister,” Mors murmured.

Elia smiled, content for now. “Good.”

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The next afternoon, his mother summoned him.

Princess Loreza stood at the edge of the balcony, her gaze fixed on the gardens below. Her robes hung like armor, her posture regal, though the lines of her face were drawn with weariness.

“You frightened us,” she said without turning.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” Mors replied, standing tall despite being intimidated by his mother. “It was an accident. I don’t ever want to go through that again—or put any of you through it.”

Loreza turned slowly and studied him. “Good. At least you learned your lesson. You were very fortunate… I—” She stopped herself, not wanting to continue that line of thought, but she shifted course instead.

“Doran tells me you’ve changed,” she said at last. “That you’ve come back with more… maturity to you.”

“I suppose I have,” Mors said.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, a flicker of warmth beneath the scrutiny. “People don’t change like this. Not at ten. Don’t try to be more than you have to, Mors. Childhood doesn’t return once it’s spent.”

Mors met her gaze, steady. “I’ll try. But most children don’t fall like I did—and stand again.”

Loreza held his eyes a moment longer, then nodded and stepped forward. She pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Good. Perhaps the fall knocked some sense into you.”

“It did more than that.”

She stepped back, one hand lingering on his shoulder. “Your father would be proud,” she said quietly. “He always said dragon’s blood burns too hot—made many of them reckless. Maybe now it burns more steadily in you.”

Mors didn’t answer, but the words rooted themselves deeper than he expected.

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later

’The sea never shuts up.’

Mors sat on the palace terrace, staring past Sunspear’s golden rooftops into the roiling blue. Waves lapped against the coast in lazy rhythm, like the world itself was breathing just to annoy him. Peaceful. Serene… Mocking.

He'd been back on his feet for weeks now. Far sooner than anyone expected. Even the septons were starting to call him “blessed of the Seven” in hushed tones, while the maester observed him with unusual curiosity; the constant checks had been chipping away at his patience until he overruled them and forced them to stop their “checkups”.

Blessed. Sure. Let’s call it that.

“I won’t be able to marry anymore,” he muttered with a mock shudder, remembering how anime protagonists always overreacted to this sort of thing.

‘Right, I won’t be able to watch anime anymore.’

He pressed his fingers to his temple and let out a slow breath. The memories were back now. All of them. Like someone crammed them into his skull and downloaded someone else’s life. Except that someone was him? It was him, right? A past version maybe… this was as confusing as it was ridiculous. Regardless, he didn’t just remember who he was—he remembered where he was.

‘This is Westeros.’

‘Game of Thrones. That was the name, right?’

‘A show. A damn TV show. Fiction. Except this feels awfully real, doesn’t it?’ he thought, clenching his fist.

He gave a humorless chuckle. “I died and got reincarnated into premium cable.”

That name felt ridiculous now, echoing in his head like the punchline to a joke only he understood. He hadn't even watched the whole thing—just one season. Maybe two, if he counted the random episodes he’d caught while bored. That was it. And barely that. He’d always been more of a casual viewer—just enough to follow conversations and recognize spoilers.

‘Wasn’t there a book as well?’ Mors sighed, while rubbing his temples.

‘I really hope this world is based off the show.’

Mors threw up his hands, exasperated. “How the hell does this even happen?!”He snatched up a stone and hurled it as far as he could into the sea, the splash distant, unsatisfying.

The days since the accident had been a blur—a convoluted mess of half-formed thoughts and strange clarity. It felt like he was seeing the world through an adult’s eyes, but still reacting with the emotions of a ten-year-old. Everything was… off. Fortunately, everyone chalked up his dazed confusion to the fall. A head injury. Trauma. Recovery.

It wasn’t until yesterday that his mind finally began to settle.

That’s when he started to put it together. At first, he almost convinced himself he was hallucinating—seeing patterns where there were none. The names. The places. The banners. They tugged at his memory in that eerie, déjà vu kind of way. Like walking into a dream you didn’t know you’d forgotten.

And then came the kicker.

Last night, as Doran sat discussing potential matches for Elia, casually naming lords and heirs from across the realm... everything clicked.

His sister. Elia Martell.

He had heard that name before—and not from his ten years of memories in this world. It came from before. From a conversation, maybe. Some “expert” rambling about the series. Her fate had struck a nerve even then.

His gut clenched.

He remembered. Not clearly, but enough to feel sick.

She died.

No—she was murdered. Her children too. Something horrific. He hadn’t seen the episode—he’d barely made it through the first season—but the story had spread like wildfire. Bar talk. Meme culture. “Man, the Red Viper’s sister got done dirty.”

Something about a silver-haired prince—Rhaegar?—dumping her for some northern girl, sparking a war.

And her kids… her children were butchered.

That part stuck. That part hurt.

Mors clenched his fists until his knuckles throbbed.

Intellectually, he understood he was no longer the same person he had once been. But the memories—the warmth of Elia’s hand in his, her quiet voice at his bedside, the way she watched over him with worry and affection—those weren’t so easy to dismiss. They were real. Too real.

So imagining that fate…

‘No. I can’t allow that to happen.’

He wouldn't let it happen.

He couldn’t.

Despite her frailty, Elia was kind. Warm. Sharper than most gave her credit for. She saw what others missed—quiet details, subtle shifts in tone. And she always reached out first, even when she had the most to lose.

She didn’t deserve to be reduced to a footnote in someone else’s tragedy.

She was alive now—laughing in the gardens, stitching banners with careful fingers, speaking of futures she didn’t yet know would be stolen.

And Mors would see that future protected.

‘Not if I can help it.’

But how long did he have?

She was already nearing marriageable age, and this was the bloody medieval era. Girls were betrothed before their moon blood stopped surprising them. A political match could happen any day. What if the offer came soon? What if the crown reached out?

What if it was already happening behind closed doors?

‘Gods. I should’ve watched more of that damn show.’

Everything felt like smoke in his fingers—fragments of half-spoiled trivia. He knew Rhaegar was involved.

‘Actually, I remember meeting him five years ago. And the King Aerys… Yeah, that was some crazy behind his eyes, no doubt.’

Knew Elia died. Knew Oberyn went on a vengeance mission. He remembered some smug coworker spoiling it, laughing over wings and beer.

“He monologues too long and gets his skull popped like a grape. Classic.”

‘Right. Oberyn dies too.’

He could still see the bastard grinning while sparring, spinning that damn spear like he was showing off for a lover.

Oberyn couldn’t die like that. Not in some glorious failure. Not because he got cocky trying to avenge Elia. Not if Mors could stop it.

But he had no roadmap. Just scraps.

He hurled another stone into the ocean.

Then he looked down at his hands. ’This isn’t normal. A child shouldn’t be this strong.’

This was something else.

Something... different.

It had started after the accident. That fall should have crippled him. By all rights, he should have been broken, bent, or buried. But within days, he was walking again. Running. Sparring.

Winning.

'Healing. Faster than I should. Too fast.'

His body didn’t just recover. It got better. Stronger. Leaner. Quicker.

And it wasn’t just the healing. His reflexes had sharpened. His awareness, too. He could predict strikes before they came, adjust mid-motion, move like the ground was part of him.

'Enhanced instincts. Like I’ve been training for years.'

He remembered sparring with Oberyn and Manfrey last week. The moment their spears clashed, he had felt it—a current, a beat, like music only he could hear.

He won those matches—caught Oberyn by surprise and edged out a victory, then outlasted Manfrey. He lost the bouts that followed, but he'd never come that close before.

Oberyn was surprised. Mors had always been gifted, but his growth had followed a steady, if unremarkable, path—natural, even slow at times. But this… this was different. He still lost more than he won, mostly due to age and reach, but something had changed. The way he moved, the precision of his strikes—it felt like he’d taken a leap forward, skipping steps no ten-year-old should.

“You’ve been holding out on us, little brother,” Oberyn had said, panting through a smile tinged with suspicion. “Since when were your attacks so ruthless?”

Mors had blinked, genuinely confused. He hadn’t been thinking—just moving.

“I don’t know, Oberyn,” he’d replied. “Ever since the accident, I just… feel more focused. Openings stand out clearer. Like I see them before they happen. Once I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

Oberyn had only nodded. He didn’t press. But Mors could see it—the worry, buried under charm and bravado. His brother always noticed more than he let on.

But the truth was he didn’t know himself… the limits of whatever power he carried were unclear. Only that it was growing. Slowly. Silently. Like a fire stoked by every heartbeat.

'It feels... familiar. But I can’t place it. Like something from another show. A game, maybe? Something I saw once and forgot.'

It was like trying to recall a dream you never quite woke up from. Every time he tried to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers.

He didn’t know what to call it, but it was in him—woven through his muscles and bones like light made solid. It felt like armor under the skin. Like something was always humming beneath his chest, ready to answer the call.

He was stronger. Faster. Thinking more clearly and quicker, even. And maybe—just maybe—he could grow powerful enough to stop what was coming.

Because it was coming.

He didn't know the timeline, but he felt it in his gut. Elia’s marriage. Rhaegar’s betrayal. Robert’s Rebellion. The war. The fire. The dragons. Zombies—or whatever those things were. That was in the opening. Had to mean something.

Oh, I absolutely can’t forget…

“The Mountain.”

Seven hells.

He didn’t even know how old Gregor Clegane was right now. Was he already out there, torturing servants and killing for sport? Would he end up Elia’s executioner again if nothing changed?

‘No. Not again.’

He wouldn’t sit still. Wouldn’t let fate fold around him like a script already written.

He had time. He had warning.

He had power—or at least, something growing inside him. And he had been born into a noble house with influence.

But he was still too young to wield it.

‘That needs to change. I need a voice.’

He would change this story.

Even if it killed him—again.

“Not her. Not Oberyn. Not anyone I can still save.”

Chapter Text

Three Weeks After the Fall

The Water Gardens of Dorne were built as a haven of peace and equality—a place where children of all stations, noble and smallfolk alike, could rest and play among the fountains, pools, and shaded paths. But for Mors, peace had become a torment.

He stood at the edge of a shallow pool, barefoot, the water cool against his skin. Children laughed in the background, splashing and shrieking, their joy echoing off sandstone columns. Servants moved like whispers in the breeze, bringing fruit and cushions to shaded alcoves. It was a place meant for stillness—but his thoughts refused to be quiet.

He exhaled slowly, watching the ripple his toes made in the water.

‘It’s like I’m living in the eye of the storm. Everything looks calm… but the edges are moving. Fast.’

His hand flexed at his side, willing that hum beneath his skin to respond. There was no shimmer. No glowing light. No dramatic surge of magic. Just the steady beat of his heart and the feeling of fullness? Wholeness might be a better word. It pulsed through him, stronger by the day. But it remained vague. Undefined but always on.

‘If I heal so quickly, I should be able to build muscle faster, right?’

Footsteps approached—familiar, measured. Doran.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Doran said, his voice warm and observant.

Mors didn’t turn. He kept his feet moving slowly in the shallow pool, watching the ripples scatter. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

Doran stopped beside him, hands folding behind his back.“Having a lot on your mind isn’t reason enough to isolate yourself.” He paused. “Is it the pain? From the fall?”

‘More like a rebirth than pain.’

Mors shook his head.“No... I feel fine. Better than fine.” He hesitated. “Stronger than I should.”

Doran glanced down at him, brow lifting.“Stronger how?”

“I tire slower. I react faster. And when I spar… it’s like I’ve trained longer than I actually have.”He glanced sideways at his brother.“It’s not normal, is it?”

Doran studied him for a long moment.“No. But then again, neither is surviving that kind of fall from a galloping horse.”

He paused, voice lowering to a near whisper.“Maybe it’s the Targaryen blood mixing with the Rhoynar line…”

But Mors heard him clearly.

They stood in silence for a moment, broken only by distant laughter and the splash of a fountain.

“I want to return to Sunspear,” Mors said suddenly.

Doran blinked. “Already?”

“We’ve been here months. It’s peaceful, yes. But too peaceful. I need to be closer to the court. Closer to the world.”

Doran turned to face him fully. “Mors… you’re ten.” He let out a quiet sigh. “You should be laughing, climbing trees, getting into trouble. Not brooding over politics and the future.”

“I won’t be ten forever,” Mors said seriously—though the sight of such gravity on a child’s face made Doran smile.A quiet chuckle escaped him, amusement flickering in his eyes.“No, you won’t,” he agreed, placing a hand on Mors’s shoulder.“But there’s time enough for the games of politics later.”

‘Time isn’t on our side. You just don’t know it yet.’ Mors thought.

Mors didn’t respond, just stared at the rippling surface of the water.

Doran shifted gears. “Then tell me—why do you want to be back in Sunspear?”

“To learn,” Mors said with mock sincerity. “I want to help Mother, and begin being useful to you—our ever-wise, soon-to-be Prince of Dorne.”He flashed a grin, but the intention behind the words felt real.

The both chuckled at that.

Then Mors turned serious. “And to know what’s being decided while I’m left playing in the water.”

“Ah,” Doran said quietly. “So this is about Elia. About that conversation the other night?”

Mors stiffened slightly. “What have you heard?”

Doran gave him a measured look. “Nothing certain. Political marriages are always delicate. There are possibilities being explored, but interests still need to align. Nothing is confirmed.”

He paused, then asked, “Why does this trouble you?”

‘Because I’ve seen the future, brother. And it doesn’t bode well for us.’

“Because I want her safe,” Mors said aloud. “She’s too important to be used as a pawn. Elia’s frial. I don’t want her to suffer.”

Doran sighed, his expression softening. “I know. Believe me, I’ve argued more than once that she should have a say in it.”

Mors turned toward him, eyes sharper than they should’ve been for a boy his age. “Do you?” he asked. “Have a say, I mean. When it comes to her marriage.”

Doran’s gaze hardened. “Not as much as I’d like,” he admitted. “Mother still rules. And the Lords on the Council… they’re eager to see Dorne rise through a powerful alliance. They see Elia as our best piece on the board.”

‘Of course they do. They’ll do anything to improve their standings and situation.’

“And what of you?” Mors asked, shifting. “Do they have someone lined up for you as well?”

Doran gave a dry chuckle. “There have been… several attempts. None have worked out. But I doubt this can be delayed much longer.”

“And what about me?” Mors asked, hesitantly.Doran glanced at him, amused. “You? You’re still too young.”“Not for long. The moment I turn twelve, they’ll start eyeing Tyrell daughters or Volantene cousins.”Doran’s smile faded. “You’re not wrong.”Silence settled between them again. Mors reached down, scooping a handful of water and letting it stream through his fingers—cool, fleeting, impossible to hold.

“I want to join the Spears,” Mors said.

Doran actually laughed. “Ah, so that’s what this is really about. This is why you want to return to Sunspear?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You? The Spears of the Sun? Planning to squire for Uncle Lewyn now, are you?”

“I’m serious,” Mors said, meeting his brother’s gaze without flinching.

Doran’s smile lingered, but his tone turned more measured. “And once again, in case you’ve forgotten—you’re ten.”

“And I’ll be eleven soon. You joined court duties at that age. Elia was writing speeches. Oberyn was already fighting better than most guards. I need to do more.”

Doran gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Lewyn is their commander. He’s strict. Harsh even. Are you sure?”

‘He’s the best fighter in our family not named Oberyn. If I’m going to survive what’s coming, I need real training.’

“Yes. Let me start. Even just physical training. Let me prove I’m not wasting time here.”

Doran studied him for a moment longer before speaking.

“I’ll bring it up with Mother,” Doran said at last. “Though it won’t be an easy sell. You know how protective she is.”

He paused, considering.“If she agrees—and that’s a big if—we can speak to Uncle Lewyn. But even then, it’s up to him. He’ll want to assess you himself. At most, you’d begin drills. No promises beyond that.”

“That’s all I need,” Mors replied, finally exhaling. The tension seemed to melt from his shoulders. “Just a chance.”

Doran studied Mors’s reaction carefully, then added,

“You’ll have to wait though, the Spears are in the Prince’s Pass, mediating renewed tensions between House Yronwood, and House Fowler.”

“Oh, them again. This rivalry is never going away, is it?” Mors, sighed and said.

‘Always Yronwood and Fowler. Proud banners, old grudges, and no end in sight.’

Doran chuckled, but turned serious. “With enough interest, or power, anything can happen.”

They stood in silence for another moment, watching the children laugh and splash in the shallow pools.Then Doran turned to Mors, his voice quieter. “You really have changed since your fall.”‘I’ve changed since my death.’“It seems so,” Mors said instead.

Doran began to walk away, but paused at the first step.“One more thing,” Mors called after him.

Doran turned.“When we return to Sunspear… I want to sit in on council meetings. Even if I just listen.”

His brows lifted, caught between surprise and concern. “Mors—”“Please,” Mors said, almost a whisper.

There was a pause.Then Doran sighed, the weight of too many responsibilities echoing in the sound.“I’ll consider it,” he said quietly. “Just… try to be a child a little longer. Growing up is harder than you think.”

He gave Mors one last look before turning down the corridor.

Mors exhaled—slow and steady—only then realizing he’d been holding his breath.

The sun glinted off the water, blinding him for a second. He looked down again at his reflection. Same silver hair. Same violet eyes.

And something else behind them now.

Purpose.

‘This is the start. At least Doran was willing to accommodate my request. But did I push too hard?’

He stepped back from the water, drying his feet on a cloth laid beside the pool.

The wind smelled of salt and citrus.

The Water Gardens murmured behind him—the sound of children laughing and water splashing.

But Mors Martell had stopped listening.

He had begun planning. Preparing, and though it began with a small pebble—Doran—it was still action.

And now he would continue to take action as he walked away from the pools.

“I wonder if Oberyn and Manfrey are up for some additional sparring.” Mors mused.

Chapter Text

Sunspear

POV I — Loreza Martell

The words dropped like a blade into her chest.

“He might not make it.”

Princess Loreza Martell did not flinch.

Not in front of her court.Not when her first husband died from wounds taken fighting pirates in the Stepstones.Not even when her second husband—and best friend—perished in the Tragedy at Summerhall, just as she’d begun to care for him more than a friend.

She had never allowed herself to break.

But now—as her brother’s voice faded into silence—her knees wanted to follow.

She stood high above Sunspear in the eastern solar, still as stone, robes heavy with titles she’d never asked for.

“Tell me everything, Maron.”

Prince Maron Martell bowed his head, the usual calm in his voice replaced by tension.“Thrown from his mount. He hit the ground hard. Head and neck injuries. The maesters suspect swelling in the spine… but they’re not certain. He hasn’t woken since.”

Loreza exhaled. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers curled around the marble edge of the table.

“Where?”

“The dunes near the Water Gardens. He was racing Oberyn and Manfrey—”

“Of course he was,” she snapped. Her voice cracked.

“Of course Oberyn goaded him into it. And no one thought to stop them? Not a single guard said, ‘Perhaps not, my princes—not across shifting dunes without saddles?’”

Maron stepped forward.“Sister—Loreza. This isn’t the time for blame.”

“No?” Her voice rose, sharp and ragged.“Then when? After I’ve buried another husband? Another child?”

Her composure cracked.

“First Father. Then Lewyn. Then that fire that took sweet Daeron—”She choked on the name. Her voice became a whisper wrapped in thorns.“If Mors dies… if he dies…”

Her hands shook.

“I won’t survive it.”

Maron placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

“He’s still breathing. That means there’s still hope.”

She turned toward him, eyes red but defiant.

“He is my youngest. He grew up without a father. He carries all we’ve lost. His blood is fire and river—or ice, as Daeron used to joke. Dragon and Rhoynar.”

Her voice dropped, trembling.“If the gods want to take him now, they’ll have to drag me with him.”

Maron gently turned her from the window.

“Then don’t let them.”His voice was quiet but firm.“Don’t feed your fear. Let the maesters work. Let the gods be silent. You—breathe.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak.

“You need to be by his side,” he said gently.“I’ll remain here. I’ll see to everything else.”

Her lips pressed together—trembling with something between rage and despair.

“But first, you must rest,” Maron continued.“You’re no use to him shattered. And Loreza… remember who he is.”

“He is a Martell. He has Targaryen fire in his blood, Rhoynish resilience in his bones. He will rise. I believe that.”

For the first time, she let herself lean into him. Just a little.

“Then believe for both of us,” she whispered.“Until I can again.”

–––––––––––––––––

Water Gardens – Training Grounds

POV II — Oberyn Martell

The sparring yard was blistered with heat and fury.

Oberyn struck, missed. Manfrey countered. Oberyn stumbled.

Again.

The clash of their wooden spears echoed hollow and false. Nothing landed right. No balance, no rhythm. No control.

“You’re dropping your back foot again,” Manfrey snapped.

“Don’t tell me what I’m doing wrong,” Oberyn hissed, circling.

“Then stop doing it!”

They crashed together again—one, two, three strikes—then the master-at-arms barked, “Enough!”

The spears clattered to the ground.

“You want to kill each other?” the old knight growled, stepping between them.

“Because you’re well on your way. This isn’t a game. This is steel-in-your-belly training. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Oberyn, “—are swinging like a drunk sellsword.”

Oberyn breathed hard through clenched teeth. Sweat stung his eyes. His hands were blistered, skin torn open from training without gloves. But he didn’t care.

“Get out of the sun,” the knight snapped.

“Drink. Rest. Get your heads on straight before you end up in the healer’s tent next to your little brother.”

That landed like a punch. Oberyn’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he turned away.

Manfrey followed, silent.

They sat in the shade beside the sparring circle. A servant passed a flask of water, which Oberyn barely touched.

“He’s not dead,” Manfrey said quietly. “He’s still breathing.”

“He wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for me,” Oberyn bit back.

“You didn’t throw him off the horse.”

“I dared him to. I laughed as we raced. I should’ve been the one who fell. I should’ve—”

“You were riding beside him, not dragging him behind,” Manfrey said.

“He made his own choice.”

Oberyn shook his head, jaw clenched.

“He’s ten. I was supposed to be watching him. Not treating him like another rider. Like another guard.”

Manfrey didn’t answer. Just passed him the flask again.

Oberyn took it this time. Drank deeply. Then stared out at the red stone walls, eyes dark with guilt.

“If he dies,” he said, voice low, “I will never forgive myself.”

–––––––––––––––––

Water Gardens – Mors’s Room

POV III — Doran Martell

The chamber was still, save for the rustle of Elia’s silks as she shifted, curled beside the bed. Her head rested on her arm, face tear-streaked, but quiet now.

Doran stood behind her, near the foot of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Mors’s chest.

Every breath felt like a battle won. Every shallow exhale a tremor.

Maesters whispered behind him. Poultices were changed. A cooling cloth pressed to the boy’s brow.

Doran did not speak.

He had always been the careful one. The steady hand. The observer. The heir who planned while others played.

But now?

He had not planned for this.

His brother—his youngest brother—lay still and pale and silent. And Doran, Crown Prince of Dorne, could do nothing.

Elia’s fingers twitched, brushing Mors’s hand.

“He’s strong,” Doran said softly.

She didn’t look up, just nodded.

“He has more fight in him than any boy his age. You’ll see. He’ll come back.”

“I don’t want him to fight,” she whispered. “I just want him to live.”

Doran closed his eyes for a long moment.

‘So do I. But I should have guided him better. I should have said no to the race. Should have taught him caution. Should have—’

He opened them again and let the guilt fade back into silence. There would be time to examine his failings later.

For now, all that mattered was the boy in the bed.

“Rest, Elia,” he said. “I’ll watch him.”

She didn’t argue. Just lay her head beside Mors again.

And Doran stood sentinel in the flickering candlelight, willing the boy to breathe again.

Chapter Text

Sunspear – Four Weeks After the Fall

The sun cast a sharp gold over Sunspear’s high towers as Mors dismounted just outside the courtyard gates. The familiar scent of sun-warmed sandstone and citrus filled the air, grounding him even as his thoughts scattered ahead. Behind him, the sound of hooves slowed. Doran was already speaking with a guard. Elia stretched her legs after the ride. Oberyn and Manfrey were bickering over who had led the tighter formation.

Mors ignored the noise. He stared up at the castle.

‘Home,’ he thought. But it didn’t feel the same. It looked the same, stood just as tall—but somehow, it felt smaller. As if he had outgrown it while it stayed the same.

They walked through the palace with barely a pause, stepping into the throne room just as Princess Loreza finished hearing a final petition. Nobles lined the gallery, most too caught up in court formalities to notice the new arrivals.

But Loreza noticed.

Her gaze swept over her children—and lingered on Mors. She said nothing, only gave a single nod before motioning for the castellan, Prince Maron, to close the session.

They followed her through an arched corridor lined with Dornish tapestries and portraits of past Princes of Dorne, eventually entering the solar where she held private council. Maron arrived soon after, his steps brisk and a small smile on his face, clearly pleased to see them all back.

"About time," he said with a smile. His eyes found Manfrey first—who ran forward for a brief embrace—then settled on Mors. "And you, nephew. Still among the living, I see."

Mors dipped his head, but the ghost of a grin touched his lips. "Mostly."

Maron clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I heard what happened. We feared the worst. The gods must favor your blood."

"Or your stubbornness," Loreza added dryly as she moved past them to her chair.

The room settled as they took their seats. Doran stood beside the table, folding his hands.

“You weren’t due to return until next month, so color me surprised when Maron informed me you’d be back early. Did something urgent bring you all home?”

“Mother, I think we’ve had enough excitement to last us a while,” Doran said. “After everything that’s happened, we all agreed it was best to return home.”

Loreza gave a nod of understanding, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Mors. “Understandable. I’m glad to have you all back in one piece.”

Doran hesitated, casting a glance at Mors’s expectant face. Then he sighed.“There is… something else. A request. From Mors.”

Loreza raised a brow, the lines around her eyes tightening as she shifted her gaze between them. “Go on.”

“He wishes to begin formal training,” Doran said evenly. “With the Spears of the Sun.”

“Oh?” Oberyn grinned, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you say so earlier, little brother? That’s a grand idea. I’ll be joining as well.”

Manfrey gave a small shrug, lifting his hand half-heartedly. “Me too.”

Loreza leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting from one face to the next, clearly surprised. “The Spears? At your age?”

“I’m nearly eleven,” Mors said, his tone steady.

“And that’s still a boy.”

“Mother,” Doran interjected gently, “he may still be a boy, but his heart is set. He doesn’t seek battle—only training and preparation. Oberyn and Manfrey would benefit from it as well.”

Loreza exhaled slowly, her fingers curling lightly against the armrest. “Doran, you are the most levelheaded among us—why are you supporting this?”

“Oberyn, you’re nearly fourteen. And Manfrey isn’t far behind. But Mors…” Loreza’s voice softened, her eyes narrowing with maternal scrutiny. “This ambition—does it come from you… or someone else?” Her gaze slid toward Oberyn, who suddenly found the floor very interesting.

“It’s mine,” Mors said, without a blink.

Loreza’s brow lifted. “Why?”

He met her gaze without flinching. “Because peace never lasts. Everything we have—everything we are—can vanish in a moment. All it takes is one mistake, or one enemy with the will to act. I’d rather be a weapon and shield ready to protect this family than a soft-handed prince waiting for others to protect him.”

Silence fell.

Even Oberyn stopped smiling.

Doran looked at Mors, surprised. Clearly, he hadn’t expected such a response.

Maron broke the silence first. “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken—spoken like a true member of House Martell. But I do agree with my sister: you’re still a bit on the young side, Mors.”

Loreza nodded slightly at Maron, then turned back to Mors. "Training isn’t ceremonial, child. The Spears don’t coddle—and neither will I."

“The sooner I can begin, the sooner I can be ready. I don’t want to be coddled. I want to be useful.”

He paused, then added, “The basic training we currently have is insufficient for that.”

Doran nodded once. “He’s been preparing already—hidden, I might add. I’d rather guide him properly than risk him overextending himself and getting hurt… or worse. He is a prince of Dorne, after all. Uncle Lewyn should assess him when he returns.”

"Lewyn is harsh," Loreza murmured.

"So is the world he’ll face," Doran replied.

Another pause.

Finally, Loreza leaned forward, lacing her fingers. "Fourteen. That’s when Oberyn and Manfrey may ‘officially’ join the Spears properly. Until then, all three of you will train under Maron’s watch. Physical drills. Weapons forms. Conditioning."

She turned to Maron. "Will you accept that charge?"

Maron inclined his head. "Gladly. I’ll put them through the same paces that new recruits for the Spears go through. Maybe harder. Let’s see if that commitment still stands after a week."

"Good," Loreza said, then fixed Mors with her gaze again. "And when your uncle Lewyn returns, the final say will be his. If he finds you lacking, this conversation ends. No arguments."

"Understood, Mother," Mors said.

Oberyn glanced at him, a cocky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like we’ll be suffering together, brothers!"

Manfrey groaned. "Suns help us all."

Elia finally spoke, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “You’re all mad—but at least you’ll be mad together. I’ll be sure to keep a close watch from under the shade.”

Mors looked around the room—at his mother, at his uncle, at his brothers, at his cousin—and let the moment settle over him. A small step forward—one that could build real momentum. At the very least, it was permission to push further and try harder. It was the beginning of something real—something that could grow into the influence he needed. And maybe, one day, he would have the influence and power to actually protect this family.

As they filtered out of the solar, Doran clapped a hand on Mors’s shoulder. "You chose your path. Now walk it well. I believe in you."

Mors nodded, his voice low. "I will—and thank you, Brother."

Doran lingered a moment longer at the doorway. “If you ever need to talk—about anything—you can come to us. Don’t keep things bottled up, alright?”

Mors met his eyes and gave a small nod. “I promise.”

The hallway smelled of warm stone and sun-soaked linen. As they made their way to the Great Hall for a light meal, Oberyn laughed and started teasing Manfrey.

“Quick detour,” Oberyn announced. “Spotted a new maid I haven’t met yet. Thought I’d be... friendly. Will you be joining me ‘again’, Manfrey?”

Manfrey laughed awkwardly, shooting a guilty glance at Elia—hoping she hadn’t heard, though he wasn’t optimistic.

“Spare the poor girl,” Elia muttered, rolling her eyes as she stepped ahead. “At least until she’s had a meal. Or a warning.”

Oberyn only grinned wider, unbothered as ever. “Half the fun is seeing how they react. Besides, who can resist this wonderful prince?”

Mors lingered a step behind them all, walking in rhythm but not entirely among them. His hands stayed at his sides, relaxed but thoughtful. He let their banter float past him, soaking in the rhythm of family without needing to interrupt.

His mind wasn’t on food. Or Oberyn’s distractions. It was on what had just occurred. The way Loreza’s eyes had lingered. The way Maron’s voice had softened, even as it pushed. The way Doran had stood—not just beside him, but behind him.

That mattered.

‘They’re watching now’, he thought. ‘All of them. Not just what I say—but how I move. How I endure. How I learn.’

That meant no missteps. No wasted effort. Every cut he took in training, every mistake, every bruise—they were going to remember it. Measure him by it. And judge him.

He would give them no excuse to dismiss him again.

As they neared the Great Hall, sunlight slanted through the high windows, painting warm golden shapes across the patterned floor. Mors slowed his pace slightly, letting the others move ahead.

He wasn’t hesitation. He was reflection.

‘A seat at the table,’ he reminded himself.‘Not just to be present—but to have a voice. To prevent the absolute shitstorm coming our way.’

For his family. For House Martell.

“Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken”, he quietly muttered—

"…man those words are catchy.”

Chapter Text

Sunspear – Next Day

The scream of twisting metal hit before the pain.Mors shot up in bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. The room around him was dim—stone walls, arched windows, the faint breeze of morning slipping through a cracked shutter. Sunspear. Not asphalt. Not steel. Not the hum of an engine right before it all went dark.Just the silence of early light, and the soft sound of his breath slowing.‘The crash.’He could still feel it sometimes. The g-force pulling sideways. The wheel turning too late. The hollow rush of adrenaline—then nothing. No pain, no panic, just… stillness. Like the universe hit pause right after impact.His fingers curled against the blanket, grounding himself in the rough Dornish weave.In that other life, he’d chased everything—money, women, adrenaline, reputation. Weekends blurred into deals and drinks and waking up in strange apartments with someone else’s perfume on his collar. He had ruled in boardrooms and bedrooms and hadn’t cared what came next. And yet…‘It was never enough.’He didn’t regret the rush. He regretted how empty it all felt afterward. Every accomplishment, every escape—it was all noise covering a kind of hunger he never understood until it was too late.Now, he had time. A second chance… A family.

This time, he wouldn’t waste it.

–––––––––––––––––Mors rose slowly, pulling on his training tunic and boots. His muscles still ached from the long ride back to Sunspear, but that was fine. He needed the ache. It reminded him that the body was his. That he was alive. That all of this was real. Outside, the courtyard was already glowing with morning light.

The training yard was empty when he arrived—empty except for Maron, who stood near a rack of spears, arms crossed.“You’re early,” Maron said without turning.“I couldn’t sleep,” Mors replied, stepping onto the sand.Maron nodded once. “Good. Then you’ll have time to bleed before the others get here.”Mors gave a dry smile. “That sounds encouraging.”“It should be. The Spears aren’t built on comfort. Trust me, I rode with them for two years.”Maron tossed him a wooden practice spear. Mors caught it, tested the weight. Lighter than expected. Balanced.“First drill. Footwork and follow-through. You don’t stop until I say.”The command came sharp. Mors moved.Thrust. Twist. Step. Reset.Again.Again.Again.The sun climbed higher. Sweat clung to his skin, turned his tunic dark, stuck strands of silver hair to his face. Still, he moved. Maron said nothing, only watched, correcting with a grunt or a small shake of the head.When the others arrived—Oberyn first, then Manfrey—they found Mors already soaked and winded, but still going.Oberyn whistled. “Someone’s trying to show us up.”Mors didn’t answer, just struck again.By midmorning, they moved to partner drills. Maron paired Oberyn with Manfrey and stepped in to spar with Mors himself.“You hold back,” Maron said as they circled. “You’re faster than you show.”Mors didn’t respond. He focused. Watched the shift of Maron’s feet. The dip of his shoulder.The blow came in a flash—too fast. Mors parried, barely. The shock ran through his arm.‘He’s not going easy on me.’Another strike. Mors sidestepped, swept low, drove the blunt end toward Maron’s ribs.It was batted away with the ease of a man who had done this his whole life.Then pain bloomed in Mors’s side as Maron spun, striking low and fast. Mors grunted and dropped to a knee.“You fight like your body hasn’t caught up to your instincts,” Maron said, voice calm. “Like you’re wearing training armor a size too small—and overcompensating for it. Stop forcing it. Let it grow naturally. Get up.”Mors rose. He didn’t speak.Again.They clashed. Wood struck wood, then skin. Mors got in a clean jab to the shoulder, but it wasn’t enough. Maron broke through again—this time knocking the spear from Mors’s hands entirely.The others had stopped to watch. Even Oberyn was quiet.Maron stepped back, tossed the spear to Mors again. “You’ve got potential, boy. But you’re still too green. We’ll help you with that.”He circled him slowly, then tapped his temple.“Your body wants to react. But your head keeps getting in the way.”

“Combat doesn’t wait for you to think. Let it flow.”Mors caught his breath, his ribs aching. ‘He’s right.’But even as the pain throbbed, even as he picked up the spear again, he felt something else pushing beneath the hurt. It wasn’t anger. Nor pride.Purpose.

–––––––––––––––––

A week passed in a blur of drills, bruises, and exhaustion.By the end of it, Mors, Oberyn, and Manfrey lay sprawled across the training yard, drenched in sweat, panting like half-drowned hounds.Blood freckled the sand from shallow cuts and split knuckles.Their limbs twitched from overstretched muscles, chests heaving in tandem, as if the yard itself had wrung them dry.

Maron stood over them, arms crossed, a rare glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Although none of you look like you can stand,” he said dryly, “I’m satisfied. You’ve made more progress in one week than some do in a month.”

All three groaned in unison.

Manfrey muttered something unintelligible into the sand.

Oberyn rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs. “If this is what progress feels like, I’ll settle for mediocrity.”

Despite the protest, they forced themselves upright, groaning and gasping as they climbed to their feet.

–––––––––––––––––

Two and a half more weeks passed.

By the end of it, Mors could hold his own against Oberyn—and had begun to outpace Manfrey, who was starting to fall behind.

The fight was fluid and fast—more dance than duel. Sand flew as feet shifted and bodies twisted, spears clashing in tight, measured fury. It had become a free-for-all. Manfrey lunged, but Mors turned his momentum against him, sweeping low and sending him crashing onto his back.

Manfrey grunted and tapped out, chest heaving. “I yield. Again.”

Without pause, Mors pivoted back to Oberyn. The tempo doubled. Their spar stretched on in a blur of jabs, counters, and parries—movements precise and intuitive. They moved like men far older than their years, blades of instinct rather than memory.

Maron watched from the edge of the yard, arms folded tight.

‘Gods... the boy’s growth is monstrous.’ The thought came unbidden, but he didn’t dismiss it. ‘Quicker, stronger, faster recovery every day. He barely rests between sessions now. Is this what happens when Martell blood mixes with the dragon’s?’

It wasn’t just strength. It was adaptability. Focus. The way Mors read his opponents—how he anticipated movements before they finished forming.

Maron had trained with prodigies before. Oberyn was one. But Mors? Mors was something else.

Then the sound came—hoofbeats, fast and urgent, pounding the sand outside Sunspear’s gates.

They all paused. Even Oberyn lowered his spear and turned toward the noise.

Maron narrowed his eyes, then nodded toward the gate. “The Spears,” he said simply. “They’ve returned.”

The boys looked at each other. The unspoken truth hung between them: it was time.

Maron stepped back and signaled the end of the session. “That’s enough. Clean yourselves up. You’ll want to look like warriors when you meet Lewyn.”

The three of them made their way toward the walls, already hearing the approach of riders through the lower court.

As they neared the gate, the Spears of the Sun came into view—one hundred mounted riders in formation, armor dark and sand-worn, weapons strapped but ready, banners trailing behind them like tongues of flame. Their faces were stone. Their movements precise. Every horse turned as one.

They looked like men carved from the desert.

Eleven riders broke off and continued toward the gate while the remainder veered toward the stables in perfect sync.

Mors slowed as he watched them ride in, the power and discipline unmistakable. The sheer presence of them.

‘One day… if I want influence like Lewyn or Maron… I’ll have to lead them.’

Not just be one of them. Command them. Earn their respect.

‘And to do that, I’ll have to be more than just promising. I’ll have to be undeniable.’

As the dust settled and the Spears dismounted, Lewyn Martell appeared among them—taller than most in Dorne, a worn expression beneath his helm, his eyes already scanning the courtyard.

Mors straightened his posture.

The time for preparation was over.The real testing had begun.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was quiet.

No music, no children’s laughter, no servants bustling with trays or garlands. Just the rhythmic beat of boots on sand-packed stone, and the low groan of wood as training racks swayed in the breeze. Sunspear was waking slowly, but this part of the palace was already alert.

Mors stood with his spear planted in the dirt beside him. Oberyn stood to his right, barefoot and smirking faintly. Manfrey to his left, chewing the inside of his lip like it might keep him from throwing up.

And before them, tall and motionless, stood Ser Lewyn Martell—Prince of Dorne, Commander of the Spears of the Sun, and, by reputation alone, one of the most dangerous men south of the Red Mountains.

“You’re not boys today,” Lewyn said, arms crossed, voice like sand scraping steel. “You’re meat. If you’re lucky, you’ll become weapons. If not, I’ll know soon enough.”

He began to pace, each step measured and slow.

“You want to join the Spears? Earn the sash and the seal? Then know this: I don’t care what your names are. I don’t care who your mother is or what blood you think gives you the right to stand here. The spear doesn’t care either. Only the sun will watch you burn.”

Mors didn’t flinch. Neither did Oberyn. Manfrey looked like he was reconsidering life choices.

“Good,” Lewyn said. “Let’s begin.”

They trained without pause.

Footwork. Shoulder drills. Weighted runs. Then live-contact sparring with dulled spears. No shields. No padding. Just pain. Mors paired with Oberyn first, and the clash of wood against wood echoed through the stone corridor like war drums.

Oberyn grinned as they moved. “Don’t hold back,” he said.

“I won’t,” Mors answered—and didn’t.

Their rhythm was tight, a sharp back-and-forth that forced focus. Oberyn struck fast and played to flair, but Mors read his hips, his shoulders. He countered with timing, not speed. It kept him alive, barely. He still lost. But not by much.

“Better,” Oberyn muttered as they separated. “You’re heavier on the left foot though.”

Mors nodded, winded. “Noted.”

Lewyn barked at them to rotate. Mors now faced Manfrey, who lunged in too early and caught a tap to the ribs.

“Ow—Seven—sorry,” Manfrey gasped, staggering back.

“Don’t apologize,” Mors said through gritted teeth. “Just guard your center.”

They went again.

And again.

And again.

By midmorning, their tunics clung to their skin, their palms raw, their legs trembling. Mors felt the heat like a second opponent, pounding behind his eyes. But he refused to stop.

You asked for this, he reminded himself. Now prove you deserve it.

Finally, Lewyn stepped into the ring.

“Individual trials,” he said. “We separate steel from sand now.”

He pointed. “Mors. In.”

Mors tightened his grip on the spear and stepped forward. Lewyn stripped off his overcloak, picked up a spear from the rack, and entered opposite him.

“Attack,” Lewyn said. “Now.”

No warning. No signal. Just a demand.

Mors moved.

He lunged, form clean and precise—but Lewyn swept the strike aside with a brutal arc, pivoting behind him like a shadow.Mors spun, more by instinct than thought, his feet adjusting without conscious command—a flash of reactive training from another life.He brought his elbow up to deflect—not standard spear form, but effective—just not fast enough.Lewyn’s spear cracked against his shoulder, staggering him.

“Good reaction,” Lewyn growled.

“But you need to be faster. You move like you're still waiting for permission.”

He stepped back, eyes sharp. “This isn’t a lesson—it’s a test.”

They moved again.

Strike. Parry. Counter. Twist.

Lewyn didn’t dance. He cut angles like a butcher. Mors gave ground, not from fear—but because the only way to survive was to adapt.

‘Don’t chase. Let him come to you.’

He waited, baited a high strike, then ducked and swept low—but Lewyn jumped the strike and jabbed him in the ribs.

Pain blossomed sharp and immediate.

Mors dropped to one knee, gasping.

“Get up,” Lewyn said.

He did.

They reset. Again.

This time, Mors didn’t attack first. He waited. Let the world slow. Watched Lewyn’s front foot shift, just slightly.

And when the blow came—he was already turning.

Wood cracked wood. Then silence.

Lewyn stepped back, lowering his weapon slightly.

“Better,” he said. “Again.”

Two more rounds.

By the third, Mors’s arms burned and his vision blurred. His whole body felt like one large bruise stitched together by stubborn will.

Then Lewyn swept his legs out, hard. Mors hit the ground, spine jarring, breath whooshing out.

He blinked against the sky.

And froze.

There—on the shaded balcony above the courtyard—stood Princess Loreza Martell.

She wasn’t announced. She wasn’t surrounded by attendants or guards.

She just stood there.

Watching.

Her face was unreadable. Her expression held neither pride nor disappointment—only scrutiny.

Mors pushed himself up, every muscle screaming.

By the time he looked again, she was gone.

Oberyn went next. Then Manfrey. Both gave their best. Both ended face down in the dirt, bruised and humbled.

When they lined up again, Lewyn stood before them with his arms behind his back.

“You’ll begin training tomorrow at dawn,” he said. “With the new recruits. You’ll eat with them, bleed with them, and earn your place from the sand up. If I ever hear you demanding special treatment or speaking as princes, I’ll throw your spears into the sea and send you back to your mothers.”

Lewyn studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.“You’ve got sharp instincts. Faster than most your age.”He gestured toward the space between them.“But the way you move… it’s like your body’s still learning to keep up with your instincts.”He stepped forward, voice level.“You think in angles, pressure, timing—that’s rare. But you’re not there yet. Your mind’s ahead of your muscles.”A pause. Then bluntly:“Instinct without discipline gets people killed. You hesitate, and that’s what gets you hurt. Or worse.”

Then at Oberyn. “You rely too much on flair. Style won’t stop steel.”

Then Manfrey. “You’re soft. But there’s steel under it. We’ll find it.”

He turned away. “Dismissed.”

That night, Mors skipped the celebratory feast arranged for the Spears' return. He found himself instead beneath one of the old fig trees by the lower garden wall, chewing on salted duck and bread while his muscles throbbed like hammered metal.

He stared into the branches above.

His knuckles were split. His ribs bruised. His ego shredded. And yet—he had never felt more alive.

Footsteps crunched behind him.

“You’re missing roast boar and honey wine,” Elia’s voice said gently.

He didn’t turn. “I’ve had enough feasting.”

She came to sit beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.

“Mother was watching,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“She didn’t stay long. But… she saw you fall.”

Mors smirked dryly. “Then she saw what I am. And what I’m not.”

“No,” Elia said. “She saw you get up.”

That shut him up.

After a beat, she placed a fig in his hand. “Regardless of what’s driving you down this path… always remember who you are—and who you’re fighting for.”

He looked down at the fruit. Then back at Elia, eyes steady.

“I haven’t,” he said.

Before sunrise, Mors was already moving.

He didn’t wait for the horns. He didn’t wait for the others. He rose before the world and ran—across the silent courtyards, into the narrow alleys of Sunspear, down to the stables and out to the empty dunes where only the wind watched him.

His legs burned. His chest heaved. But he didn’t stop.

He trained.

He drilled stances until his thighs trembled. Practiced sweeps until his shoulders locked. When the sun finally broke over the horizon, he stood at the top of the dunes, sand-caked and blood-speckled from splinters.

Below, the palace began to stir.

The Spears of the Sun would begin drills soon.

And Mors would be waiting.

He wasn’t training for approval—he was preparing to lead.

To shape his own path. To challenge fate itself.

And just like that, two years passed.

Chapter Text

Mid 272 AC

The desert had become his crucible.

Mors Martell ran barefoot across the dunes long before the sun crested Sunspear’s towers, breath rhythmic, muscles surging with every stride. Only a strip of cloth at his waist, his chest slick with sweat and sand, and his breath steady despite the incline. His feet no longer blistered; the sun-kissed skin had thickened, hardened with each dawn.

‘The stronger I become… the more this power strengthens me in return.’

It was a truth he’d only begun to fully understand. The strange aura within him—his gift, his cheat, whatever it was—did not grant power from nothing. It amplified. Enhanced. Multiplied the foundation already there.

So he’d spent the last two years building that foundation—day by day—under Uncle Lewyn’s discipline and Uncle Maron’s steady hand.

After the morning dunes, he dove into the sea.

Three laps out past the reefs, where the guards hesitated to follow. The salt burned his eyes, but that was the point—resistance, unpredictability, breath control. The ocean fought him every stroke. And he welcomed the fight.

By the time he returned, sand stuck to his skin like armor.

Then came the forge.

Two hours each day with the blacksmiths, working the bellows, hammering heated iron into shape—first with his right hand, then his left.

They called him mad at first, but the results spoke louder: Strength. Endurance. Precision.

His palms were a roadmap of burns and calluses now.

Even Oberyn and Manfrey started joining now and then.

In the afternoons: grappling drills in the pit with Oberyn and the heavier recruits. He began integrating movements from the fighting style he remembered—low stances, joint control, disabling strikes—foreign to Westerosi forms but brutally effective.

No flair. No honor-bound technique. Just leverage, instinct, and threat elimination.He didn't name it. It simply was. A kind of combat memory baked into his bones.

In the evenings: spear forms. Then sword drills. Then recovery… if you could call dunking in a freezing cistern recovery.

Sometimes he practiced blindfolded—mapping movement through pressure and breath, not sight. Stress drills. Sudden attack responses. Training his body to react before thought could catch up

He did it all again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Oberyn muttered as they collapsed beside the training pit, chests heaving, bruises blooming across their ribs and arms.

Mors rolled onto his side, panting. “The point of this is to avoid exactly that.”

Manfrey groaned from the other end. “You know, it’s hard to sell that idea when you look half-dead every evening.”

He sat up, rubbing his shoulder, then flexed his arm with a wince.“Still… I’ll admit, I’ve been feeling stronger. These weird drills of yours—they’re doing something.”

Mors didn’t answer. He just stared up at the burning sky, letting the ache in his muscles anchor him. He could feel it—his body responding, growing faster than it had any right to. His power accelerated progress. But it didn’t replace effort.

“Any idea when Doran will return?” he asked after a moment.

His mother, Doran, and Uncle Lewyn had traveled to King’s Landing for the grand event—King Aerys’s Ten-Year Anniversary Tourney. The capital had buzzed with fanfare and spectacle, but word of tension had followed. Mors remembered visiting the city when he was only five. He had met King Aerys, Queen Rhaella, and Prince Rhaegar. Aerys had been courteous enough, though even then, his eyes had seemed… off. Like something inside was humming too loud. Mors had been too young to name it then, but looking back now, it read like a warning sign. The Queen, by contrast, had been lovely—graceful, gentle, and warm in the way only certain women could be with children. It was strange to think they were actually his first cousins. Rhaegar… well, Rhaegar had been five years old. They’d played, supposedly. Mors remembered flashes—laughter, wooden swords, a courtyard fountain—but it all felt distant, like scenes from someone else’s home video.

What had made more recent news, however, was the sharp exchange between King Aerys and his Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister. An offhand insult to Joanna Lannister had reportedly caused a stir so severe that Tywin attempted to resign. Aerys refused.

Oberyn shrugged without opening his eyes, sprawled flat in the sand.

“No idea,” he said. “But it shouldn’t be much longer. Mother’s eager to start that ‘courtship tour’ she keeps talking about.”

He sighed helplessly, tossing a pebble into the dirt beside him.

And wasn’t that a surprise.Apparently, his mother and Joanna Lannister had been quite close in their youth—close enough to discuss the possibility of betrothing the Lannister twins to Martell blood.

Since Doran was too old for such matches, that left three likely candidates: Elia, Oberyn... and himself.

Mors exhaled slowly, the idea settling on his chest like a weight.Elia, tied to Jaime.Oberyn, forced into a match with Cersei.Or worse—himself, shackled to a golden lioness with wildfire behind her eyes.

He didn’t know which pairing sounded more dangerous.

‘Did this really happen in the story?’, Mors wondered.

Or was this just another ripple—the butterfly effect, catching wind?

They could only wait for Doran’s return.

When the summons came, Mors wasn’t surprised.He paused only long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow before making his way to the high solar.

The family had gathered… but they weren’t alone.

And something in the air felt off.

Tension.

Standing near the window was a beautiful, cool-toned woman with dark eyes and long black hair, her features partially veiled in the formal style of Norvoshi nobility.

Beside her stood a tall, powerfully built man, his dark skin gleaming, head shaved clean, posture sharp and unmoving—like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Doran stood beside the woman, one hand gently resting on her arm, and—for the first time in recent memory—wore a rare, genuine smile.

Elia sat straight-backed and silent, but her posture was rigid.Oberyn lounged like he didn’t care, one leg crossed, but his eyes never left the guests.Manfrey hovered behind a chair, unsure if he should sit or just keep pretending not to fidget.Maron stood off to the side, holding a half-opened scroll, as unreadable as ever, but worry lingered in the furrow of his brow.Lewyn was notably absent—still leading a regiment in pursuit of the sand bandits that had hit a caravan the week before.

At the head of the room stood Princess Loreza, dressed in formal robes of burnt red and black, her face unreadable, her presence unmistakable.

She raised a hand.

“Sit.”

They obeyed.

She hesitated for just a moment. Then spoke.

“This is Mellario, a noblewoman of Norvos.”She paused, eyes narrowing slightly—measuring the room.

Then continued.

“She is Doran’s betrothed. They are to be married.”

Silence cracked like glass.

Elia blinked, lips parting—but no words came.

Oberyn stood suddenly and let out a wild, disbelieving laugh.

Manfrey dropped into the nearest chair with a thud.

Maron didn’t move, but his thumb slipped from the scroll—just slightly.

And Mors just stared.“Huh?” he said, too stunned to find anything smarter.

Elia stood abruptly—but not in anger. Her eyes were wide, a strange brightness behind them.

“You truly love her?” she asked Doran, her voice softer now.

Doran nodded without hesitation.“With all I am.”

Elia let out a slow breath, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.“Then I’m happy for you.”

She turned to Mellario, her tone gentle.“Truly. Any maiden dreams of marrying for love… even if she pretends otherwise.”

Her gaze lingered on Doran.“You may be the first noble in a generation to actually do it.”

Mellario inclined her head, respectful, a small smile touching her lips.“Then I thank you, Princess.”

Elia snorted lightly.“You’ll have to call me sister now. Come—we should talk.”

That earned the faintest smirk from Loreza, barely visible at the corners of her mouth.

“With that settled,” the Princess said, her voice regaining its edge, “Mellario is here as a future Martell. And we will honor that.”Her eyes slid to Doran. “Though your timing could not be worse.”

“There’s never a good time to break expectations,” Mellario replied, her Norvoshi accent lacing her words.“But I’ll make sure to make him happy.”

Maron cleared his throat at last.“Then… I take it the courtship tour is postponed?”

Loreza turned her head slowly.“That’s correct. There will be a wedding first. In two months. Send word to the lords of Dorne and beyond.”A pause.“And double the wine orders—we’ll need it.”

Oberyn chuckled, leaning back.“Ah, now that sounds like Sunspear. We should host a small tourney while we're at it—something for our age. A ‘get-to-know-your-betrothed’ sort of bloodsport.”

Elia rose again, her expression bright.“If you’ll excuse us, Mellario and I are going to tour the gardens.”She took Mellario’s arm with ease, and the two women left the room together, their steps light and unhurried.

Mors watched them go, eyes trailing the tall figure that followed behind.“By the way,” he muttered, “who’s tall, dark, and brooding?”

Loreza’s smile returned, faint and knowing.“He’s a bearded priest of Norvos. His name is Areo Hotah. Sent by Mellario’s family to protect her.”

“Ah,” Mors said.That made sense.

Big. Silent. Axe-shaped presence.Definitely a bodyguard.

This was definitely not what he’d expected when he was summoned.

Almost at the same moment, he and Oberyn turned toward Doran with matching glints of mischief in their eyes. They looked at each other, grinned like twin conspirators, then stood.

“Alright, brother,” Oberyn said, cracking his knuckles.“Time for details. All of them.”

“Yes,” Mors added. “We need names, places, scandal, and a map of how exactly you pulled this off without telling any of us.”

Doran sighed. But he was still smiling.

Chapter Text

Two months later.

The sun above Sunspear was merciless, but the garden courtyard was alive with color. Silk banners snapped in the sea wind. Spices scented the air. From balconies, nobles leaned in to watch the union of Prince Doran Martell and Mellario of Norvos. It was the kind of ceremony Dorne rarely hosted: sincere, vibrant, and crowded with nearly every major house from the region.

Princess Loreza Martell stood tall beside the couple. She didn’t just offer a formal blessing—she offered protection.

"Let no lord whisper that this was a soft match. Let them whisper that Dorne chooses comfort not to escape duty, but to endure it."

Mors stood quietly between Elia and Manfrey, taking it all in. He wasn't old enough to understand every political ripple, but he could see the tension on certain faces. Lord Edgar Yronwood's jaw stayed tight the whole ceremony. A missed match, no doubt. An insult, maybe.

After the feast, during the courtyard mingling, Manfrey nudged Mors. "Two of the Yronwood knights were talking in the breezeway. One of them said, 'Dorne gave up strength for a bedfellow from across the sea.'"

Mors glanced toward Loreza, who stood sipping wine near the fountain.

"Tell her or Doran?"

"Mother," Mors said. "Doran doesn’t need the weight tonight."

A few days later, just after sunrise, the royal caravan gathered at Sunspear’s main gates. Princess Loreza rode at the front, her sand-steed cloaked in deep crimson barding. Doran and Mellario remained behind—Doran now acting as regent during his mother’s absence. Lewyn stayed as well, taking command of city defense and helping Mellario adjust to court life.

The Yronwood host had departed the morning after the wedding without so much as a proper farewell. Lord Edgar, along with his son Ormond and daughter Sarella, had been seen in what looked like a heated argument near the stables. Mors had wanted to ask, but it was Maron who filled in the blanks later. Apparently, House Yronwood had once pushed hard for a match between Doran and Sarella—and before that, had tried to secure Elia for Ormond. Loreza had ultimately allowed Doran to marry Mellario, but now Mors understood why she had seemed conflicted leading up to the ceremony.

As the gates closed behind them, Mors glanced back at Sunspear. He’d never been farther than the Water Gardens. This wasn’t just a journey—it felt like his first real step into the world beyond. They would cross all of Dorne by caravan before reaching Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne along the Torrentine River. After a day’s stay, they would board a ship bound for the Reach, with Casterly Rock as the final destination in the Westerlands.

Politics had never been his strong suit—not in his past life, and not now. But watching Lord Edgar storm off had made one thing clear: keeping House Dayne, Dorne’s third-strongest house, close wasn’t just smart—it was necessary.

Maron rode just behind Loreza, leading the formation. Elia kept pace with Oberyn and Manfrey, their voices light with banter. Mors stayed nearby, quiet, watching more than speaking. This caravan didn’t just carry supplies—it carried a message. A reminder to all of Dorne: We are House Martell. We are present. We are watching.

They made several stops along the way to greet the people—brief ceremonies, food offerings, blessings. At one such stop, House Dayne rejoined the royal party. Lord Beric Dayne, tall, silver-bearded, and formal, greeted Loreza with quiet respect. His sons flanked him: Ulrick, calm and observant; Arthur, already known across Dorne for his swordwork; and Ashara, who looked like she was measuring everyone around her.

Mors and Oberyn had already befriended Arthur and Ulrick during sparring the previous day, but Mors had yet to meet Ashara.

That changed quickly.

She spotted him the moment she arrived and marched straight over, hands on hips.

“You’re the one everyone’s been talking about,” she said flatly.

Mors blinked. “Didn’t know I had fans.”

“You don’t,” she said. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re actually fast, or if everyone’s confusing brooding for skill.”

Oberyn let out a laugh before stifling it behind a cough. Elia smirked. Manfrey looked like he wanted to back away before he got caught in the blast zone.

Mors tilted his head. “Do you always open with a challenge?”

Ashara didn’t flinch. “Do you always dodge with sarcasm?”

“Careful,” Oberyn warned with a grin. “She’s got a wooden sword and no restraint.”

Ashara shrugged. “Not no restraint. Just nothing to prove. I’m going to be a knight.”

Mors raised a brow. “You’re what, eleven?”

“I’m twelve. And from what I hear, so are you. Nobody’s stopping you.”

“Girls can’t be knights,” Manfrey muttered—then immediately ducked as Elia raised her hand.

Ashara smirked and shot a look toward Loreza. “This is Dorne. Women can rule. If I want to be a knight, I will be. And Father will just have to allow it.”

Arthur stepped up then, voice calm but firm. “Ashara. Go spar with the guards.”

She rolled her eyes, but before leaving, she pointed at Mors. “I’ll test you later.”

He watched her go. “Is she always like that?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. And she usually wins.”

Then Arthur turned to Mors. “Yesterday’s spar—your timing’s good. You’ve got more talent than you realize. Especially with a longsword.”

Mors blinked. “I’ve trained mostly with shortswords or spears.”

“Then let’s fix that. It never hurts to master more than one weapon.” Arthur offered a small, sincere nod. “I’ll train you, if you’re willing.”

Mors grinned. “If you’re offering, who am I to turn down a lesson from the future Sword of the Morning?”

Arthur looked away, almost embarrassed. Ulrick chuckled and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder.

“That title still has to be earned,” Arthur said quietly. “But thank you.”

Oberyn stepped in next, grinning. “Trying to get ahead with extra training, Mors? Not without me. I’ll join too. I can’t let the two of you run circles around me.”

Arthur shrugged. “The more, the better.”

Manfrey lifted a hand. “Can I watch?”

Oberyn shot him a wink. “Only if you bring the water.”

The caravan moved through the heart of Dorne. Towns turned out in celebration, offering fruit, music, and bread. Loreza spoke with fire and clarity. Elia charmed the crowd. Oberyn danced with local girls and challenged retainers to impromptu duels.

And Mors watched it all.

He trained with Arthur in the evenings. The sparring was intense, efficient, almost silent. Arthur didn’t speak often, but when he did, it mattered.

"You don’t waste movement," Arthur said one night after a bout.

"I hate wasting anything," Mors replied, breathless.

Arthur handed him water. "Good. That’s what makes a real fighter."

Three days later, the caravan entered the Red Mountains. The path narrowed into a rocky pass bordered by jagged cliffs.

That’s when the attack came.

Shouts. Steel on steel. Sudden movement.

Mountain raiders poured from the rocks, blades flashing. The guards scrambled to form ranks.

Mors didn’t wait.

He kicked off the side of a supply wagon, vaulted onto a low ledge, and sprinted across it at full speed. He launched into the air, tucked mid-jump, and landed behind a raider charging a dismounted guard. One strike to the back of the knee. Another to the ribs. Then a quick thrust of his short sword through the throat—the man crumpled.

Another bandit turned. Mors was already moving. He sprinted, jumped, and wall-kicked off a nearby boulder to gain height. In midair, he twisted and drove the blunt end of his spear into the man’s shoulder. The raider cried out and dropped his weapon—only for Mors to send a dagger straight into his chest a moment later.

Across the trail, Oberyn was already in motion, dancing between two raiders with his spear flashing. “Left side!” he called. “Archer in the rocks!”

Mors nodded and ran. He scaled a sloped outcrop without slowing, hands finding holds by instinct. He reached the top, vaulted the ridge—and crashed straight into the archer.

The bow flew from the man’s grip. Mors punched once, twice, then drove a dagger in to finish it.

As he turned, another attacker lunged from the side. Mors pivoted sharply, ducked under the swing—and then something blurred past his vision.

Arthur Dayne.

One clean cut. The raider collapsed.

Arthur looked over. “Well done,” he said.

Down below, Maron moved like a ghost through the chaos. Two enemies dropped before they even realized he was there.

Within minutes, it was over. The surviving raiders broke and fled into the hills.

Loreza rode in, her cloak snapping behind her in the wind. She surveyed the aftermath, then turned to Mors. Her expression remained composed, but her eyes lingered on him with a hint of concern.

“You were sharp,” she said. “But let’s keep the heroics to a minimum until you’re older.”

She glanced up at the ridgeline, thoughtful. “We’ll need to task the Spears with clearing these mountains. This won’t be the last ambush.”

Mors nodded absentmindedly, but his attention was on wiping blood from his hands and blades.

‘Funny. No one ever mentions how hard it is to clean someone else’s blood.’

They cleaned the area in silence, moving methodically, then set up camp nearby as dusk settled in.

Chapter Text

That night, the fire crackled low. Mors sat in silence, staring into the flames, his thoughts running quiet and heavy.

‘I killed three people today. And I feel… nothing. Is that normal?’‘Has this world changed me that much already?’

He didn’t notice Ashara until she dropped down across from him, sitting cross-legged and poking dates onto a small stick to roast.

“You didn’t hesitate up there,” she said, watching him.

Mors flinched slightly, then relaxed when he saw it was her. “Didn’t have time to,” he muttered.

“Most people freeze. You didn’t. You climbed like it was nothing.”

He shrugged. “We train for that. Spears cadets learn to fight in rough terrain.”

Ashara handed him a roasted date. “I want a rematch.”

Mors tilted his head. “We haven’t fought yet.”

“Exactly. I want a rematch after our first fight. Just in case you win.”

He chuckled. “Not very confident, are you?”

She smirked. “Just covering all exits. Like the guards would say.”

Oberyn walked over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “You two are going to get along too well. I can already feel it.” He said it with a grin, though his eyes lingered on Mors with quiet concern.

Manfrey followed, handing out water skins. “No broken bones?”

“Just bruises,” Mors said. “And maybe my pride.”

Arthur arrived a few moments later, settling on a flat stone and pulling out a whetstone for his blade. He didn’t say much—but when he spoke, it always carried weight.

“Mors. You handled yourself well. Tomorrow we train again.”

Mors nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

Arthur gave a small, rare smile. “You’re already ahead of most. Just don’t stop there.”

As the fire popped and settled into quiet embers, Mors looked around at the group—Oberyn leaning back with a smirk, Manfrey nudging Ashara with some joke, Arthur sharpening his sword.

The dark thoughts faded, at least for now.

For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like a shadow trailing the edge.He felt like he belonged.

‘They say this tour is for Dorne to see us,’ he thought. ‘But maybe it’s showing me something too.’‘Who I’m becoming.’

–––––––––––––––––

A few days later, they arrived at Starfall, where they stayed for three days—attending feasts, walking the cliff gardens, and meeting the rest of House Dayne. Loreza seemed to view the Daynes with a strategist’s eye now. Maron discussed tariffs and trade routes with Lord Beric, while Oberyn made it his mission to charm every Dayne retainer with poetry, acrobatics, and tales of manhood earned too early.

Arthur intensified Mors’s training after the battle in the cliffs.

Ashara and Mors finally had their duel—but Ashara kicked him in the shin and declared victory on the spot.

Oberyn called it a draw. “On account of underhanded ingenuity.”

–––––––––––––––––

On the fourth morning, the Martells descended to the river port, where sleek vessels bound for the Arbor waited.

As they boarded, Ashara followed Mors down to the dock.

“Next time I’ll beat you properly,” she said.

“I look forward to it,” he replied.

Arthur nodded from behind her. “Travel safe.”

“You too,” Mors said. “And thank you—for your welcome, and your guidance.”

He glanced back at Starfall as the sails unfurled.

‘Ashara Dayne. Spoiled, loud, unruly—and somehow… fun.’‘Around her, I actually felt my age.’‘…Maybe I do need more friends.’

The ship caught the wind, and the pale towers of Starfall disappeared behind them.

Ahead lay the Arbor—a new realm of courtiers, contracts, and quiet threats.Behind him, Mors had made new friends. Even that knight wannabe.Even if she did kick like a mule. ‘Gods help whoever marries her.’

–––––––––––––––––

Princess Loreza called the group closer, her voice clear as ever.

“Understand this: the rest of the realm does not see us as equals. They do not admire our traditions or our independence. They call us strange—say we smell of spice and sweat. That we look off. That we do not kneel when we should. And so, we are not their first choice for marriage. Or alliance. Or trust.”

Mors kept his eyes on her, feeling the weight in every word.

“They do not love Dorne. But they want what we can offer—protection, bloodlines, trade. And for once, we must be clever enough to take advantage of that.”

She began pacing, the folds of her robe trailing like a shadow.

“For centuries, Dorne has been proud—and isolated. But pride without strategy is vanity. And isolation is not safety—it is weakness waiting to be exploited.”

Her eyes swept across them.

“Our closest potential allies—the Reach, the Westerlands, and even the Stormlands—have wealth, influence, and armies. Even with our bloodied history, they offer more than the distant courts of Essos or the empty promises of the crown.”

“We’ve fought the Reach and the Stormlands for generations,” Oberyn muttered.

“And yet, marriage has quieted wars before,” Loreza said coolly. “When I speak of the Reach, I don’t mean just the Tyrells. The Arbor has a strong fleet and vast trade power. Oldtown, for all its quiet, holds hidden strength. I wouldn’t be surprised if they could rival the Tyrells in supremacy—if they wanted to. But they don’t. And that makes them even more dangerous to underestimate.”

She looked toward the sea. “Before we reach the Westerlands, we’ll see if any true alliances can be found in the Reach.”

–––––––––––––––––

The Arbor was green in a way Dorne never could be.

Vine-wrapped towers rose from the cliffs like living monuments. The harbor swarmed with merchant ships, their sails stitched with gold thread and grapevine crests. The air smelled of citrus, crushed oak leaves, and wine older than most knights.

It was beautiful—the kind of beauty that made Mors uneasy.Like a table set for someone else to decide where you sit.

The Martells drew attention the moment they stepped ashore.

Princess Loreza led with a crimson robe draped like command. Maron followed—calm, silent, and impossible to ignore. Elia gave the expected smiles. Oberyn gave the inappropriate ones. Manfrey trailed behind, trying not to trip over his own boots.

But the one they stared at most was Mors.

He didn’t look like his siblings. Sun-kissed, yes—but with skin a shade lighter. Hair pale as Dornish moonlight. Eyes—Valyrian violet.

People squinted, trying to place him. Trying to decide if he was Dornish, or something else entirely.

‘They don’t know what to make of me,’ he thought. ‘Good. Let them keep guessing.’

–––––––––––––––––

The Redwynes hosted like men trying to drink away the memory of rebellion before it could begin. Long tables groaned with cheese, candied lemon, and enough Arbor Gold to bathe in. But the pleasantries rang hollow beneath the polished silver.

“Your line carries the elegance of the East,” one lordling told Elia.“You shine like Aegon’s dawn,” another said to Mors.

The smile Mors gave didn’t reach his eyes. His cheeks were already tired from too many forced courtesies.

‘They’d marry a wine barrel if it had Valyrian eyes,’ he thought.

–––––––––––––––––

Despite how exhausting the whole farce was, they left with several trade agreements. Shipments of Arbor Gold were expected to arrive in Sunspear within the month.

–––––––––––––––––

The sun hung low as the Martell ship pulled into Oldtown. Banners flared in the harbor wind as they approached the towering Hightower. Waiting at the gates, resplendent in polished armor and a green cloak stitched with silver flames, stood Ser Baelor Hightower, heir to Oldtown.

He greeted them with solemn grace. “Princess Loreza, Prince Maron, honored kin of Dorne—welcome to Oldtown. The Hightower stands ready to serve.”

He bowed with perfect precision, then stepped forward to take Elia’s hand.

“My lady Elia,” he said, his tone softening, “I hope you’ll find our halls as beautiful as you are.”

Elia flushed slightly, offering him a graceful nod. “You honor me, Ser Baelor.”

Oberyn made a face but said nothing.

As Baelor turned to guide them through the great archway, he gestured with a sweeping arm and said, “If you’ll follow me, I shall—”

Pffft.

A strained, trumpet-like sound escaped—sharp and sudden.

The sound cut clean through the corridor. A short, unmistakable burst of air.

Silence.

Baelor froze. Everyone else did too.

Oberyn choked on a breath. His lips twitched. He leaned toward Mors and Manfrey and muttered, barely audible, “Baelor Breakwind.”

But Elia heard it too.

Her shoulders stiffened; her mouth twitched. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard it nearly bled. Mors stared ahead like a statue, his chest straining with silent laughter.

Baelor, either unaware or too proud to acknowledge it, continued walking—head high, voice a little higher than before.

Whatever flutter of affection had sparked between him and Elia vanished on the spot. Try as she might, every time she looked at him after that, all she could hear was Oberyn’s voice—and that terrible nickname—echoing in her mind.

And from that day on, to House Martell, Baelor Hightower would forever be known as Baelor Breakwind.

Chapter Text

The feast at the Hightower was as polished as the marble underfoot—warm light from crystal chandeliers, long tables spread with roast duck, lemon-glazed fish, and greens soaked in Arbor oils. Wine flowed freely. Courtiers whispered between courses. Musicians played soft harp melodies while the sea wind stirred banners bearing the burning tower of House Hightower.

Lord Leyton Hightower made his entrance with quiet grandeur. He looked every bit the ancient pillar of Oldtown—regal, unreadable, and slightly faded by time.

He greeted Princess Loreza with a bow deeper than expected, then extended a hand to Prince Maron. "It has been too long since Oldtown hosted royalty from Dorne. You honor us."

Maron bowed slightly. "And we come with the hope of knowing the Reach anew."

Seated beside Leyton were his children. Ser Baelor Hightower, his eldest, was the image of noble poise—tall, chiseled, and awkwardly persistent. His sister Alerie, demure and attentive. Garth, the youngest present, offered little more than a polite nod. Then there was Malora—already watching Mors before he even sat down.

Baelor tried, once again, to charm Elia. He offered compliments, poured her wine, and even stood behind her chair slightly too long after a toast. Elia remained gracious but distant. Her glances toward Mors and Oberyn were brief—but enough to show she was leaning on familiar ground for stability.

Halfway through the meal, the music softened.

Then Malora stood.

She wore robes in strange overlapping greens, embroidered with spirals and symbols only she seemed to understand. Her expression was distant but focused. She walked slowly to the front of the hall.

All conversation fell silent.

She stopped a few paces from Mors and pointed.

“I see you,” she said, her voice calm yet unnervingly clear. “The boy who is not just a boy. The pale flame beneath the dark sun.”

The room stiffened. Guests glanced at one another, unsure whether to be alarmed or entertained.

“You are the Sun of Dorne,” Malora continued, raising a hand now. “You will light the path ahead. You will scorch the cold that seeks to swallow us. Your aura burns too brightly to be contained—it strengthens others simply by existing.”

Mors froze mid-motion.

Utensils clinked. Someone coughed. A few lords exchanged wary, puzzled glances.

“I offer myself to your cause,” Malora said. “I will follow you. Serve you. Give whatever is needed. And if it must be, I will be your bride.”

Mors managed a polite smile, though a cold bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck.‘Too close… far too close.’

He didn’t need to look to know Oberyn was watching.

“Well,” Oberyn muttered. “That escalated.”

Malora returned to her seat without waiting for a response, completely unfazed.

At the high table, Alerie Hightower—poised, quiet, and far more grounded than her sister—blushed and looked down. She said nothing for the rest of the evening, but Mors caught her glancing at him three more times before dessert.

Elia leaned in, her lips barely moving, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Quite the aura you’re giving off. Might want to dial the flame down a notch.”

Mors sighed. “Please don’t start. I’m already bracing for Oberyn—I don’t need you joining in.”

Elia chuckled but said no more.

Elia chuckled softly but let it go, her smile lingering as she turned back to her cup.

–––––––––––––––––

Later that evening, Loreza’s chambers were secured. Guards swept the room and shut the doors. No attendants. No retainers. Only family.

Loreza stood at the center, Maron to her right. Seated on cushions around the room were Oberyn, Elia, Mors, and Manfrey.

“We’ve traveled half the Reach,” she began, “and now you’ve seen with your own eyes what they value, what they fear. I want to hear your thoughts. Speak freely.”

Oberyn raised a hand with a smirk. “I think Baelor’s still trying to fart out his dignity.”

Manfrey laughed. Elia elbowed Oberyn—hard.

Elia took the lead, her tone measured. “Oldtown carries itself with pride. They act modest, but they’re judging everything. Especially us.”

Loreza nodded. “And?”

“They don’t like how different we are. But they’re curious.”

Mors sat straighter. “Oldtown isn’t flashy, but they’re dangerous. They hold more power than they show. The Faith. The Citadel. The fleets. Even without armies, they influence the flow of ideas. They wait. They study. And if they strike, it’s planned years in advance.”

Loreza’s eyes sharpened. “Good.”

Manfrey cleared his throat. “They’re... watching how we act. I think they’re testing if we’re worth trusting.”

Maron turned to his son, surprised—but nodded with quiet approval.

Loreza walked slowly behind them. “You’re learning. All of you. Good.”

She stopped, then looked at Elia. “You’ve had no fewer than ten marriage offers since we left Sunspear.”

Elia blinked. “Ten?”

Oberyn scoffed. “And I’ve had what? Two? Tragic.”

Loreza raised a brow. “You’ve had two. Manfrey’s had two as well.”

Manfrey nearly dropped the cup in his hand.

“And Mors...” she continued.

Everyone turned to look.

“More than any of you. Nearly twenty offers—formal and informal. And most aren’t asking for a child to wed. They’re trying to claim a future.”

Mors said nothing. But the weight of it pressed quietly in his chest.

Loreza finished: “We must not mistake attention for opportunity. Or opportunity for trust.”

She looked at each of them, one by one.

“Tomorrow, we leave Oldtown. The Westerlands come next. Stay sharp. You’re not just symbols anymore. You’re weapons. Tools. And in time… rulers.”

Oberyn leaned back, wearing a sly grin. “By the way—are we counting Malora Hightower’s… offering as a marriage proposal?”

Mors let out a quiet groan, running a hand over his face. There was humor in it—but also a flicker of unease.

The others chuckled, some nervously.

Loreza exhaled and glanced at Maron, brow creasing.

Maron spoke calmly. “She’s called the Mad Maid for a reason. Brilliant, perhaps—but clearly not all there. It’s not something worth pursuing.”

Loreza nodded, then added, “Alerie, on the other hand, seemed particularly taken with Mors. But she’s already promised to Lord Mace Tyrell. Best not to speak of it. No need to stir rumors where none are helpful.”

Maron smirked. “Alright then—Sun of Dorne—and the rest of you, get some sleep. We stop at the Shield Islands next before heading to Casterly Rock.”

Mors groaned quietly.

The others burst out laughing.

–––––––––––––––––

The next morning, sails filled with a steady wind as the Martell party departed Oldtown. Farewells were given with practiced formality. Lord Leyton offered vague blessings, Baelor tried one last time to kiss Elia’s hand—and she politely turned to fix her hair instead. Malora simply stared at Mors from the balcony without blinking.

Mors didn’t wave back.

They boarded two sleek ships provided by House Hightower, with guards and retainers stowing supplies below deck. The journey to the Shield Islands took less than a day with the sea calm and skies bright. By evening, green shores came into view—Oakenshield, the largest of the four isles and home to House Grimm.

Stone walls rose from a cliffside fortress overlooking the harbor. Ships bearing golden oaks and silver anchors rocked gently in the port.

As the Martell party disembarked, they were met at the docks by a line of armored retainers and a tall, broad-shouldered man in his later fifties—salt-gray hair, sun-worn skin, and a naval captain’s bearing. His surcoat bore a golden oak on storm-blue.

He stepped forward with a respectful nod, but his face was unusually somber. “Princess Loreza. I am Lord Addison Grimm, Lord of Oakenshield and Warden of the Western Waters. Welcome to my island.”

Loreza disembarked first, Maron beside her. Mors followed with Elia, Oberyn, and Manfrey close behind.

“Lord Grimm,” Loreza greeted, noting the stiffness in his shoulders. “We thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”

Lord Addison bowed his head but didn’t return the courtesy smile.

“There’s… news,” he said. “From Casterly Rock.”

Maron’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of news?”

Addison looked directly at Loreza. “Lady Joanna Lannister has died. In childbirth.”

The words struck like a cold wave.

Even Oberyn’s usual smirk vanished.

“The child?” Loreza asked, steady but cold.

“A boy. He lived. But…” Lord Grimm hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “They say he was born twisted. Deformed. Some whisper it’s the gods’ punishment—for Lord Tywin’s pride.”

A sharp silence followed.

Elia blinked, stunned. Manfrey stared at the ground. Mors glanced at his siblings, watching their faces.

Loreza took a slow breath, then nodded once. “Thank you. We will rest tonight and sail out at dawn.”

Lord Grimm gave another bow and gestured toward the keep behind him. “Rooms have been prepared. But you may want to keep a tighter guard near the servants. Rumors spread quickly here—and not all of them are kind.”

–––––––––––––––––

That night, the Martells sat in hushed conversation in one of the guest halls. No feast. No laughter. Just the crackle of the hearth and the weight of bad news hanging over them.

Oberyn broke the silence first, his voice low. “The proudest man in Westeros just lost his wife… and gained a son he might wish hadn’t survived.”

Loreza didn’t look up from the fire. “He’ll never show it in public. But in private… this will shake Casterly Rock.”

Mors watched her carefully. For once, she looked tired.

“Mother,” he asked, “how are you holding up?”

She exhaled, slowly. “What can I say? I thought I’d be reunited with a friend—to celebrate a birth, maybe even finalize a betrothal between our children.” She paused. “Instead, I’ll be arriving for a funeral.”

Mors didn’t know what to feel. Grief, maybe. Pity. A strange, distant anger.

He only knew one thing—this changed everything.

Chapter Text

The cliffs of Lannisport loomed ahead like jagged gold, catching the late afternoon sun in shimmering defiance. The Martell banners flapped softly aboard the deck, the winds gentler now as if even the sea was hesitant to draw too close to Casterly Rock.

Mors stood at the bow, eyes fixed on the harbor city unfurling before them. Compared to the arid beauty of Dorne or the windswept grace of the Reach, Lannisport looked carved out of wealth and polished stone. Ships packed tight in orderly rows, docks swarmed with banners of crimson and gold. Even the warehouses gleamed.

“They polish their walls the way we polish steel,” Oberyn murmured beside him.

“And yet, something still stinks,” Manfrey added, nose wrinkling.

Mors said nothing. But he silently agreed with Manfrey.

A host waited at the docks. At its head stood Ser Kevan Lannister, resplendent in polished armor that seemed to gleam without flaw. His face was grim, though he bowed in proper deference as Loreza disembarked.

“Princess Loreza. On behalf of House Lannister, I welcome you to Lannisport,” he said. “Though I wish it were under brighter stars.”

Loreza’s expression was somber but composed, her eyes steady with quiet understanding. “You are kind to receive us.”

Kevan gestured toward the waiting carriages. “Lord Tywin sends his regrets. He is… indisposed, but will receive you soon. Perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he fares.”

Oberyn arched a brow, but said nothing.

As they boarded the carriages, Mors felt it—the eyes. Dozens of them. From behind merchant stalls and beside guard towers. Lannisport’s people were watching them not with curiosity, but judgment. Some even held disgust. As if the presence of Dorne itself was an offense.

“They’re staring,” Elia muttered beside him. “And not kindly.”

“They look at us like we’re stained,” Manfrey said.

“Not all of us,” Oberyn noted. “Look at the ones near the steps—they’re gawking at Mors.”

Indeed, several onlookers seemed caught between intrigue and confusion as they lingered on Mors’s pale hair, the subtle glint of violet in his eyes. The unease turned to uncertainty—some almost bowed.

‘They think I’m Targaryen,’ Mors realized. ‘Or close enough.’

It didn’t matter. They had grown used to it over the course of this ‘tour.’ The Dornish were always viewed differently—watched with curiosity, judged with suspicion.

But all of that faded the moment they saw it.

Casterly Rock.

Not just a castle—but a mountain sculpted into a fortress. Towers rose from its golden sides like spears cast in the sun. The sheer size of it defied belief, its gates alone larger than most Dornish keeps.

Kevan rode beside the lead carriage and spoke without flourish. “Casterly Rock has never been taken by force. It never will be.”

Mors kept his expression neutral, but a thought surfaced:

‘That’s what the Casterlys said, before Lann the Clever tricked them out of it.’

Once inside the gates, the Martell party was led through winding stone halls that echoed with wealth. Gold-inlaid sconces. Tapestries stitched with pride. Even the servants moved like they knew they belonged to greatness.

The feast was small. Intimate, even. But nothing about it felt welcoming.

Kevan sat at the center of the table, his wife Dorna Swyft beside him—a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes and pleasant manner. She did most of the talking, gently inquiring about Sunspear, the Reach, even the Arbor.

The surprise came when the twins joined.

Cersei and Jaime, golden-haired and barely six, walked in under the watchful eye of a Septa. Cersei wore a red velvet gown, expression set in practiced confidence. Jaime trailed behind, fidgeting with a wooden lion toy.

The moment Cersei saw Mors, she stopped.

Her eyes widened—just slightly—and she tilted her head as if she couldn’t decide whether he was a prince or a statue.

“You’re very pretty,” she said.

Oberyn nearly choked on his wine.

Jaime scowled. “He’s not!”

“What would you know,” Cersei shot back. “besides, I didn’t say he was a girl,”

Elia leaned in, whispering to Mors with a smirk, “Careful. You might have just won a Lannister heart.”

“Thank you, young lady,” Mors said, a slight twitch at the corner of his eye and a polite, strained smile. “But ‘handsome’ is the word we usually use for boys.”

It would’ve been amusing, if not for what came next.

Cersei tilted her head again and asked, far too casually, “Is it true that Dornish people used to steal babies? Kill them sometimes?”

The entire table went still.

Kevan’s fork paused mid-cut. Dorna Swyft paled.

Loreza’s expression remained unchanged, but her gaze sharpened, quietly taking in more than before.

Maron cleared his throat. “Many, many centuries ago, one rebellious house in the Red Mountains committed atrocities during the Nymerian unification. It was stamped out.”

Cersei didn’t flinch. “Can I hire them? I want them to kill my baby brother.”

Jaime gasped. “Cersei—!”

“I hate him,” she hissed. “He’s a monster. He killed Mother. Why does no one else see that?”

Elia rose from her seat slowly. “Cersei,” she said gently. “You’ve just lost someone you love. That kind of pain… it doesn’t always make sense. But no one is to blame.”

“He is,” Cersei said, eyes shining. “You didn’t see him. He’s… wrong.”

She turned and ran, red skirts swishing, Jaime scrambling to follow her, voice breaking as he called her name.

For a moment, no one moved.

Kevan pressed his hand to his brow. “Forgive us. She… doesn’t understand what she’s saying.”

Loreza finally spoke, her voice low and certain. “She may not understand the weight of her words—but she meant every one of them.”

The rest of the evening passed under that shadow.

Even Oberyn kept quiet.

Two days passed before Tywin emerged.

The meeting was held behind closed doors, though it didn’t stay private for long. Mors watched his mother and uncle return to the guest hall afterward, faces drawn taut.

Maron didn’t speak. He only poured a goblet of wine, drained half, and stared at the fire.

Loreza stood with rigid posture, voice cold and final.

“There will be no agreements with the Westerlands.”

Elia blinked. “Nothing at all?”

“No alliances. No betrothals. No promises.” Loreza’s voice dropped, quiet but cutting. “He wanted our blood and our name without offering a damn thing in return—not even respect. He went so far as to call his newborn a ‘perfect match’ for you.”

She let out a long breath, her posture softening as years seemed to settle on her shoulders. “With Joanna gone… his heart has hardened beyond reason. I fear he’ll never be the man he once was.”

“And what of Lady Joanna’s promises?” Mors asked.

“Not a word,” Maron muttered. “He spoke of legacy, of duty—how Casterly Rock doesn’t bow to sentiment.”

Loreza’s lips thinned. “I would’ve left that hour. But Joanna deserved our respect. She was a good friend, once.”

The next day, the sept of Casterly Rock was visited by many highborn mourners. Gold-threaded banners hung limp. Silent Sisters guided the body of Joanna Lannister down the central aisle with slow, practiced steps.

Tywin Lannister never left her side.

He didn’t weep. He didn’t speak. He simply stood there, a stone carved in the shape of a man—unmoving, unflinching.

Cersei clung to the bier, screaming for her mother.

Jaime held her tightly, tears rolling down his cheeks, trying to soothe her even as his own voice broke.

Mors watched in silence, hands clasped before him. For all his frustration with the Lannisters, he could feel it—grief like a weight in the air.

Even Tywin, for all his steel, looked broken in a way that words couldn’t reach.

'This is what pride becomes, when there's no one left to soften it,' Mors thought.

No one from the Rock said a word to the Martells that morning.

By nightfall, the Martell party was already back at the docks, escorted by Kevan Lannister and a contingent of guards.

The same watchers stared from rooftops and alleys, but now they kept their distance.

Pleasantries were exchanged, though it was clear everyone simply wanted the moment to pass.

“Thank you,” Loreza said, her voice composed. “You and your wife have shown us great courtesy—especially under such difficult circumstances.”

Kevan offered a tired nod. “It’s what’s proper. And what must be done.” He paused, then added, “Stay near the mainland on your return. The Ironborn have grown bolder of late.”

“We will. Thank you,” Loreza replied.

The sails were unfurled. The ship creaked and shifted with the tide. Mors stood beside his siblings at the rail, eyes on the cliffs.

Oberyn exhaled. “So much for Westerland alliances.”

“Good riddance,” Elia muttered, arms folded.

“Do you think she meant it?” Manfrey asked softly.

“Cersei?” Mors asked. “I think she meant every word. But I also think she’s just a child. A broken one.”

Oberyn nodded. “Like many children raised too close to power.”

As the ship pushed out into open waters, Casterly Rock faded behind them—less a fortress now, and more a wound they were eager to leave behind.

The sea wind caught their cloaks.

The Martells turned south once more, yearning for the stillness of the Water Gardens after a journey heavy with politics and grief.

Chapter Text

Early 273 AC

The gates of Sunspear loomed like a mirage made real, golden against the midday sun. After nearly half a year on the road and sea, the Martell entourage rode wearily into the palace courtyard, their banners hanging limp, their cloaks dusty and sweat-soaked. What should have felt like triumph tasted instead like sand.

Mors remained quiet atop his saddle, eyes tracing the familiar outlines of Sunspear’s towers and arches. The wind carried the scent of sun-warmed stone and salt—home. But something in him had changed. He wasn’t returning as the boy who had left.

When they departed, he had stood just under 5’5” (165 cm); now, at thirteen, he measured a solid 5’8” (173 cm)—only inches shy of the 5’10” (178 cm) he’d reached in his past life.

But the difference wasn’t just physical. He moved differently. Stood differently. Thought differently. The journey had stripped away any illusion that this world resembled the one he came from. Whatever maturity he once believed he had—it hadn’t been enough. Not for this. And he would never be the same because of it.

He’d also come to realize something else—something unsettling. He was more important than he’d initially understood. His bloodline, his appearance, the way strangers stared—he was too desirable for this realm. Politically. Symbolically. Visibly. Outside the walls of Sunspear, where he’d been shielded—insulated by family and familiarity—that truth had become undeniable: people didn’t see a boy. They saw opportunity. Leverage. A name that could shift alliances. A face that whispered fire and conquest.

And that realization worried him—scared him, even. He already had enough to carry. Enough to prepare for. He couldn’t do this alone.

Servants rushed forward, bowing low, offering cool water and citrus-scented towels. Loreza dismounted first, stretching her spine with a wince. Doran was waiting near the western arch, hands clasped behind his back, robes crisp and posture impeccable.

“Welcome home,” he said simply.

Loreza offered him a tired but genuine smile. “We’re grateful for it.”

Elia and Oberyn greeted him warmly. Manfrey gave a quiet nod. Mors stepped forward last.

Doran's gaze rested on him for a breath longer than was proper.

“You’ve grown,” Doran said.

Mors inclined his head. “And you’ve kept the sand from swallowing Sunspear.”

That drew a faint smirk from the prince.

“Yes,” Doran replied. “Had to throw away a couple of brooms to achieve it.”

Then, leaning toward Loreza, he murmured something low, inaudible to the rest. Her brows lifted slightly, then settled. She glanced at Mors—just for a moment—before schooling her expression.

“Come,” she said. “A light meal is waiting. Then rest. Doran, Maron, and I have something urgent to tend to. We won’t be long.”

No one argued. They were too tired. But Mors noticed the looks.

The southern solar offered welcome relief from the heat. Cool tiles kissed bare feet, and sea breezes curled lazily through the open arches. A long table awaited them, set with platters of lemon-spiced lamb, honeyed olives, baked figs, and chilled wine.

The younger Martells ate in near silence until Oberyn broke it with a sigh.

“I can’t wait to spend a month at the Water Gardens,” he said, already sounding half-drunk on the idea. “I hear we have some new servants. Manfrey, you’ll be joining me, right?”

Manfrey gave a nervous smile, glancing toward Elia before answering. “I’ll accompany you... to make sure things don’t get out of hand.”

Elia rolled her eyes but chose not to comment.

Oberyn smirked, then turned his attention to Mors. He gave him a once-over, humming theatrically. “You’re thirteen, but you look much older now... I think it’s time I gave you some other kinds of training, Mors. What do you say?”

He smiled like a cat who’d just invented mischief itself.

Elia stiffened instantly, rising from her seat like a desert scorpion ready to strike. “You will do no such thing, Oberyn. Mors is not like you. And just because he looks older doesn’t mean he isn’t still thirteen.”

Oberyn raised his hands in mock surrender. “Peace, sister. It was a joke. I would neeeever corrupt our dear baby brother.” He winked at Mors with exaggerated flair.

Mors couldn’t help but chuckle. For a moment, his earlier worries melted away.

After the laughter subsided and conversation settled, Elia leaned back and said thoughtfully, “Did anyone else notice the way Doran looked at Mors?”

Oberyn poured himself more wine, feigning indifference. “Jealousy, I’d say. I would be too, if I saw hair that silver and eyes that sharp.”

Elia ignored him. “No, it was... different. He said something to Mother, and then she looked at you.” She turned her gaze on Mors. “Do you know what that was about?”

Mors shook his head. “Not a clue.”

Manfrey looked between them. “Maybe more marriage proposals arrived?”

“Or maybe someone spotted a new scandal brewing in court,” Oberyn offered with a grin. “If it’s a matter of love, I’m available. I fix hearts and break rules.”

“You break heads more than hearts,” Elia muttered.

Still, the unease lingered. Whatever had passed between Doran and Loreza hadn’t been idle—and they all knew it.

The next morning, Mors rose early. Sunspear was still in those quiet hours—the heat not yet oppressive, the hallways bathed in soft, golden light.

He moved through the palace like a shadow, making his way toward the training yard. Six months of courtesies and political posturing had left his limbs aching for motion.

As he approached, the rhythmic clash of sparring met his ears.

Lewyn. Maron. And someone else.

Mors paused beneath the archway.

The stranger was tall—perhaps an inch or two taller than Lewyn and Maron—with broad shoulders and a grounded, deliberate stance. His face was square-jawed and lined with age. Dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, clung damp to his brow. Despite the years, he moved with the honed precision of a man long accustomed to violence.

He was sparring with Ser Lewyn Martell. Maron stood nearby, observing from the shade.

Lewyn and the stranger circled each other like predators. Neither spoke. Their silence was sharp; their eyes locked in the language of warriors too experienced for empty words.

Lewyn struck first—quick as a viper—his spear slicing through the air. The stranger caught the blow on his shield, grunting, then swept low with his sword, aiming to unbalance. Lewyn skipped back, light on his feet despite the weight of his armor and age.

The stranger advanced, his longsword flashing in a clean arc. Lewyn twisted aside, letting the blade pass, and rammed the butt of his spear into the man’s ribs. The impact cracked like a staff against stone. The stranger staggered but did not fall. A grim smile flickered across his face.

“I can read you better now,” he muttered.

Lewyn’s eyes narrowed. “Getting cocky, are we?”

They clashed again. Steel screamed. The stranger fought like a soldier—grounded, disciplined, economical. Lewyn, like a Dornish prince—fluid, agile, unpredictable. One was forged in battlefields, the other in sun and sand.

Minutes passed. Neither yielded.

Lewyn feinted high, then dropped into a sweeping leg strike. The stranger narrowly leapt over it, pivoting in the air and slashing at Lewyn’s thigh on the way down. The blade nicked cloth—no more.

Lewyn hissed and jabbed with his spear. The stranger slapped it aside with his shield and charged in, too close for the spear’s reach. His pommel arced toward Lewyn’s jaw. Lewyn ducked and drove an elbow into his gut.

They staggered back, panting.

Sweat gleamed on their faces. Bruises bloomed like paint. A cut bled at the stranger’s temple. Lewyn’s lip was split. But neither looked ready to yield.

Mors had crept closer, drawn in by the display. He was almost at the edge of the yard when the stranger looked up—and froze.

His jaw slackened. His breath caught. His expression shifted—haunted, almost reverent.

In the same instant, Lewyn pivoted and landed a clean strike across the stranger’s face. The man’s left eye began to swell as the spar came to a sudden halt.

The stranger shot Lewyn a resentful look.

Lewyn just chuckled and stepped back without apology—especially once he saw Mors standing nearby.

Maron sighed—apparently, these kinds of interruptions had become routine in their absence. He stepped forward.

“Mors. You’re early. Good.”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the stranger.“This is Ser Jeremy Norridge. He was a... close friend of your father. He’s come to Sunspear to see you.”

Mors blinked. “My father?”

Jeremy seemed to stir from his trance, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Daeron Targaryen,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I rode with him. Fought beside him. We were... friends. The best of friends.”

There was a hesitation on the word —too heavy to ignore.

Lewyn said nothing but watched the interaction with a sharp gaze.

Jeremy added, “If you have time, I’d walk with you.”

Mors nodded, curiosity outweighing the wariness.

This man—apparently a friend of his father—had just gone toe-to-toe with Ser Lewyn Martell, Captain of the Spears of the Sun and one of the most formidable fighters Mors had ever seen.And he’d come all this way... for him?

Mors was intrigued.

Chapter Text

A few moments later.

They walked the perimeter of the sparring ring. Jeremy moved like a man shaped by decades of training—precise, controlled, never flashy.

“I loved him,” Jeremy said quietly.

Mors stopped mid-step, turning sharply toward him. “Wait… you mean you and my father were…”

Jeremy let out a soft chuckle. “Yes. Matters of the heart are rarely something we control.” He paused before adding, “He was betrothed, you know—to Olenna Redwyne. Yes, the mother of the current Lord of the Reach.”

Mors blinked. “Seriously?”

“Fortunately, she wasn’t too keen on it, and neither was Daeron. They both had sharp tongues. Too sharp for each other.”

Mors furrowed his brow. “Then how… did I happen?”

Jeremy’s expression softened. “Your mother, Daeron, and I were close—very close. When Loreza’s first husband died, Daeron wanted to comfort her. Your grandfather, King Aegon, saw an opportunity to draw Dorne closer to the Crown and suggested they marry. It was meant to be platonic—a gesture of support. But wine, grief, and old affection…” He shrugged. “Well, you can imagine the rest.”

Mors just nodded slowly, still processing.

Jeremy’s voice dipped, touched with reverence. “He was light and fire, foolish and brilliant. He didn’t see the world as it was—he saw it as it could be. I admired him for that. Maybe I loved him for it.”

He glanced at Mors—deeply, as if seeing someone else. Then he spoke, not like a soldier recalling a tale, but like a man confessing a sin.“And then he died. So many of them did—chasing his father’s... ambitions. They called it the Tragedy at Summerhall. I wasn’t there with him. I should have been. But I wasn’t.”He paused, voice thickening. “I think the real tragedy—for me—was that he died while I lived.”

He paused.

“I was away—retrieving a gift. A spear, Dornish-forged from ironwood, black and red. It was meant to symbolize what we were. By the time I returned... there was only ash.”

Jeremy stopped walking.

“I thought about dying. Thought about it a lot. But then I learned your mother was pregnant—who would’ve thought?” He let out a dry chuckle. “I stayed... I wanted to witness the legacy of Daeron before... well, before I made any decisions.”

He exhaled slowly. “But when you were born—when I saw your face, your features—I realized maybe I still had a purpose. I foolishly asked Loreza to let me take you to King’s Landing, to raise you there with your Targaryen kin.”

His smile faded. “She refused, wisely. Said you were a Martell. That this was your home.”

He gave a sad smile. “And she was right. Princes aren’t raised by grieving ghosts.”

Mors exhaled slowly. “So you left.”

Jeremy nodded. “I did. Wandered for a while. Eventually went east—Free Cities, Basilisk Isles, Disputed Lands. Spent four years with the Second Sons. Trained. Fought. Learned how to lead. Studied tactics, languages, things I never knew I lacked. I didn’t want to just be a ‘dashing knight.’ I wanted to become someone worthy. Someone who could stand beside you.”

He stopped again.Then he knelt.

“If you’ll have me, I pledge my sword to you. Not to House Martell. Not to Dorne. To you, Prince Mors Martell of House Martell—son of Prince Daeron Targaryen.”

He continued, voice steady with conviction:

“I offer my service, Prince Mors. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Mors stared. No one had ever offered him that—not like this.But he understood the weight of what was being given.

He straightened, his voice clear.

“Then hear my vow,” he said after a moment. “You shall always have a place at my hearth, meat and mead at my table. I swear never to ask for dishonorable service. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

He took a breath.

“Arise. And serve with honor.”

Jeremy stood, his face composed but deeply moved.

Lewyn, who had been trailing them to ensure Mors’s safety, gave a short nod and stepped back to give them space. Now that Jeremy had sworn himself to Mors, he’d allowed himself to ease up—if only a little.

As they sat along the edge of the training yard, cooling down with water and dates after their walk and conversation, Jeremy finally spoke.

“I’ve heard you’re something special with a blade,” he said. “Lewyn couldn’t stop praising you. Said he’s rarely—if ever—seen potential and progress like yours. Especially at your age.”

Mors gave a small chuckle. “I’ve been improving fast… but it’s not enough.”He paused, then added, “I also lost nearly six months because of… the tour.”

Mors’s voice dipped briefly, but he moved on before the silence could settle.

“Besides the bruise on your eye—why do you have so many others? They all look fresh.”

Mor’s tone was casual, with light amusement—but after watching the earlier sparring match between Jeremy and Lewyn, he already had his suspicions.

Jeremy laughed—low, dry, and wry.“Lewyn,” he said simply. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me again. Called me a deserter. Said I abandoned Loreza. Questioned whether I was still worth anything with a sword.”

He stretched his shoulder with a grunt. “So we fought. Sparred every day. Sometimes twice. He hits hard. But I hit back.”

He gave Mors a crooked smile. “I’ve come a long way over the years. I can even beat Lewyn now... well, occasionally.”

Mors smirked. “So he respects you now?”

Jeremy shrugged with a chuckle. “I’ve known Lewyn a long time—hard to read, that one. But he’s been glaring at me less lately. I’ll take it as progress.”

Mors studied him for a moment. “You said you wanted to raise me. Why?”

Jeremy’s expression sobered.

"The truth is, I wanted you to have the same chances he did. I’ll admit—I still had my biases about Dorne. But Loreza set me straight. And when I saw you... I saw Daeron."He paused, then added more quietly,"But now I see it clearly—you carry him with you. I see it in your stance, your eyes... But there’s more. Something still taking shape. Something powerful."

Mors sat in silence for a moment, letting the words settle.

Then Mors nodded. “Moving forward... I’ll need your help. I’ll be depending on you.”Jeremy met his gaze and saw it—that weight Mors carried, invisible to others but unmistakable to him. He nodded once, firm and without hesitation.“Gladly.”

That evening, as the halls of Sunspear quieted, Mors walked the corridor that passed the family solar.

He slowed.Voices carried.

Maron.“He’s doing it deliberately. King Aerys is backing Volantis—pouring coin into their trade war with Myr and Tyrosh. Just to contradict Tywin’s counsel.”

Doran responded, calm but measured.“He’s growing unpredictable. Tywin knows it. That’s why he tried to step down as Hand. Even now—after losing his wife—Aerys refuses to let him resign.”

“If Myr and Tyrosh retaliate with piracy,” Maron said, “it’ll start with attacks on the shipping lanes. Stepstones first. That’s our doorstep.”

Mors stepped through the doorway.

“Then we prepare now,” he said.

Both men turned.

Doran offered a faint smile. “You know, little brother, it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“The door was open, so…” Mors replied with a shrug.

Maron nodded. “Then understand this: Our king—Aerys—has been acting erratically. Volantis is only the beginning. And whatever we may think of Tywin Lannister, he’s an excellent Hand. This... this is self-sabotage.”

Doran crossed his arms. “We don’t know if this ends in war. But if it does—we can’t be caught off guard.”

Maron added, “I’ll speak to Loreza. I’m going to King’s Landing. Someone has to speak sense to the Small Council.”

Mors nodded slowly.

He didn’t voice it, but the thought was already forming—Something was coming. And he still had a long way to go.

As Mors stepped into his room, he noticed something new—something that hadn’t been there before. A long shape rested atop his bed, carefully wrapped in cloth. He approached it slowly, noting a small folded note tucked beneath the wrappings.

He picked it up.

To: MorsFrom: JeremySo that you can carry a piece of the legacy your father couldn’t.

Mors stilled.

He peeled back the cloth—and stopped breathing for a moment.

The spear lay before him, over seven feet long. Its shaft was carved from dense northern ironwood, polished to a dark, gleaming finish like black glass. Intricate etchings ran up from the base—subtle, winding flame-like patterns burned into the grain.

The spearhead was castle-forged steel, shaped in the elegant leaf-blade style favored in Dorne for both thrusting and slashing. Its edges shimmered faintly with a reddish hue—like tempered embers caught in sunlight.

Just below the socket, an inlaid emblem gleamed: a silver sun wrapped in twin dragon wings.

Tied beneath the blade, a tassel of black and crimson silk—House Targaryen’s colors—braided in Dornish fashion, swayed in the breeze drifting in from the balcony. It moved like fire.

More than a weapon, it was a shard of memory, a bond of blood, a promise reborn.

Mors held it firmly in both hands, then walked to the window, the wind lifting the tassel behind him like a banner.

Chapter Text

Three months had passed since the courtship tour ended. The winds had shifted.

Prince Maron Martell had sailed to King’s Landing a month after their return, hoping to persuade the Small Council to reject supporting Volantis in its growing conflict across the Narrow Sea. Tywin Lannister, ever shrewd, had advised the Crown to remain neutral. But whether out of arrogance—or spite—King Aerys had chosen to back Volantis.

The consequences were already being felt. Pirate activity in the Stepstones had surged in recent weeks, likely fueled by proxy retaliation from Myr or Tyrosh.

Three weeks ago, Maron had written from the capital. Despite all his efforts, the council had remained divided. There had been no progress. He and Mellei Uller were preparing to return to Dorne, unsuccessful.

Back in Dorne, things moved forward.

Oberyn and Manfrey had officially joined the Spears of the Sun, riding west with Lewyn Martell to begin a months-long sweep through the Red Mountains to root out the raider remnants that had ambushed the caravan the previous year. The campaign was harsh and bloody—but necessary. And both boys had wanted it.

Mors had stayed behind—Loreza remained firm in her decision that he wouldn’t officially join the Spears until he turned fourteen. In the meantime, he trained daily with Ser Jeremy Norridge, his father’s old companion. The two had grown close.

Training Yard in Sunspear

The sun had begun its steady climb when Mors and Jeremy stepped into the training yard. The sand was warm beneath their boots, and a faint sea breeze stirred the banners above the ramparts. Lewyn watched from the shade, arms crossed, silent as a hawk.

They faced one another—prince and knight—each armed with blunted training weapons: Jeremy with a longsword, Mors with a Dornish spear.

The opening was cautious. Jeremy moved with measured precision, gauging Mors’s rhythm. But Mors didn’t wait. He surged forward with youthful speed, his spear slicing in a tight arc toward Jeremy’s shoulder. The knight caught the blow on his blade—easy—but his brows lifted slightly, though he was no longer surprised by the force behind it.

Mors pressed the attack. He spun, kicked off his back foot, and swept low—forcing Jeremy to hop back or risk being knocked off balance. The boy was light on his feet, agile and relentless. Every motion spoke of a body honed by discipline and hunger. His strikes carried more intent than most men twice his age.

Jeremy adjusted quickly, parrying a thrust and twisting into a counter. Mors ducked under it, rolled across the sand, and rose into guard. He wasn’t just fast—he adapted. His footwork still had rough edges, but it was precise. Sharper than it had any right to be at thirteen.

They exchanged a flurry of blows—spear clacking against sword, boots grinding across the sand. Mors feinted high, then stepped in and drove the butt of his spear toward Jeremy’s ribs. It landed—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make the older man grunt and give ground.

Jeremy grinned. “Alright, then.”

He responded with a low sweeping strike that caught Mors off guard. The boy stumbled, but turned the fall into a controlled roll and came up kicking—striking toward Jeremy’s knee. It didn’t land, but it could have. Jeremy answered with a mock punch that Mors narrowly dodged.

Both stepped back. Breathing hard from the spar, though Mors was visibly less.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a single nod of approval.

“Your instincts keep getting sharper. Your talent’s honestly unnatural—gods-defying speed, the strength of a career blacksmith. But after three months… it’s your stamina that’s really started to impress me.”

Mors caught his breath, then grinned. “I was worried the tour might’ve dulled me—lost a lot of training time. But the progress over the last three months… it’s been frightening, even to me.”

Areo, still watching from the shade, gave a low grunt. “You’ve improved. All around.”

Mors rolled his eyes. “You still hold back in our spars.”

Areo gave a simple nod. “Naturally.”

Mors’s eye twitched slightly. Even after a few months, he still couldn’t tell if the 6'8" (203 cm) behemoth was being smug, sarcastic… or something else entirely.

Jeremy looked at Mors again—longer this time, almost like a father seeing more than just skill. “No. He’s more than improving. He’s something special.”

He sheathed the training sword. “That’s enough for today. I’m testing a possible recruit for your personal guard.”

Mors had begun sharing elements of his own fighting style—techniques drawn from his past life. He called it Dornish Martial Arts to avoid raising too many questions. Jeremy, intrigued by the unique and ruthless method, picked it up quickly. Together, they had begun drafting plans to form a specialized personal guard for Mors, with Jeremy as its captain.

The idea was simple: a compact, elite unit built around speed, precision, and adaptability. Jeremy had already started scouting for promising recruits.

Areo Hotah occasionally joined their training sessions. Though he rarely spoke, his precision and fluid control—especially given his massive frame—had impressed even Jeremy. Over time, both Jeremy and Mors had earned his quiet respect.

Off the training grounds, Mors spent time with Mellario, Elia, and Doran—often sharing quiet afternoons over tea or light meals. Loreza joined them when her court duties allowed.

Jeremy and Loreza also found time to catch up when they could, usually over wine or the occasional dinner.

Later That Morning

The sun was warm, the air gentle with the scent of orange blossom.

They sat in the Garden of the Sun, a shaded marble courtyard ringed with flowering trees. Mellario poured honeyed tea for Elia and Mors, while Doran spoke softly to Loreza about the Spears’ progress against the mountain raiders——until the sound of rapid footsteps broke the peace.

The maester—a wiry, pale-skinned man named Maester Othmar—rushed into the garden, his robes half-loosened and scrolls bouncing against his satchel.

“Your Grace—” he gasped, “I... I have an urgent message—”

Loreza raised a hand calmly. “Compose yourself, Maester. You’re a grown man, not a page. Let me see it.”

Maester Othmar hesitated, swallowing hard. His hands trembled as he extended the sealed letter.

Loreza broke the wax and began reading.

Her face, steady as stone a moment ago, began to drain of color.

Then her fingers twitched. The letter slipped from her grasp. A low whisper escaped her lips.

“No...”

And she collapsed.

Elia cried out as Doran caught Loreza before she struck the ground.

Mellario and Elia rushed to her side. Mors was already kneeling, supporting her head.

Maester Othmar scrambled forward, breath catching in his throat. He checked her pulse, then exhaled slowly. “She’s only fainted,” he said. “I can have her awake shortly—just let me—” He rummaged through his satchel.

But Doran had picked up the fallen letter.

He read silently, his hand gripping the parchment tighter with each line. When he finished, he stood slowly, holding the letter like it had weight.

“No,” he said, quieter now. “Let her rest a moment. It might be... for the best.”

Mors looked up sharply. “Doran... what is it?”

Doran stared straight ahead, voice steady—but heavy.

“We’ve received word from House Santagar.”

Everyone went quiet.

“There was an attack off the coast of Spottswood. Pirates struck Maron’s ship.”

He paused. “He... fought hard. But his wounds... he died of them before he could make landfall.”

Doran’s mouth moved, but the next words came barely above a whisper.

“Uncle Maron... is dead.”

Elia broke down into sobs, clutching Mellario’s arm as she wept. Mellario herself gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in shock.

Mors didn’t speak.

His jaw clenched. His hands closed into fists. His chest rose sharply.

Heat flushed through his body, unrelenting and cold at once. His uncle—the man who had ridden at the head of the tour, who had quietly guided Mors since childhood, who had never hesitated to stand in front of danger—was gone.

Murdered by cowards and thieves with no banners.

His eyes lowered. The table shook beneath his clenched fists.

And then something changed.

Everyone felt it.

Doran blinked. A strange clarity rushed into his mind—sharp and sudden. The fatigue in his limbs began to melt away. His focus sharpened. He felt... stronger. He looked at Mors with surprise.

It wasn’t just him. Mellario sat up straighter. Elia looked startled, her tearful eyes briefly wide with alertness.

In that moment of clarity, Doran turned—and caught it.

A glint.

Maester Othmar, staring at Mors —not with concern, but with something colder.

Calculating. Predatory.

There was a flicker of something else too—something darker. Like malice barely hidden.

Doran’s eyes narrowed.

That glint didn’t belong.

His face hardened, the warmth gone from his features. Something ruthless settled behind his eyes.

But then Loreza stirred.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her fingers twitched. Her eyes fluttered open.

Mors, still at her side, steadied her as she came to.

Loreza’s breath came in quick bursts. Her voice cracked, raw with emotion.

“We... we need to—”

“Mother,” Doran said firmly, stepping in. “You need rest. Everything else can wait. Let me handle it.”

At that moment, Ser Jeremy entered the garden, still half-armored from sparring with Areo. His face tightened when he saw the tension in the room.

“Ser Jeremy,” Doran said. “Please escort my mother to her quarters.”

Jeremy nodded at once, moving beside Loreza with careful hands.

Then Doran turned to the Maester.

“Maester Othmar, go with them. Prepare a light dose of milk of the poppy for Her Grace. Nothing strong. Just enough to ease her nerves.”

Othmar hesitated—then bowed stiffly and followed.

Doran’s gaze didn’t waver. Cold. Unblinking.

Mors watched it all, his head still spinning.

And then the weight hit him.

A sudden, heavy fatigue—deeper than any he’d felt after training. His limbs ached. His chest felt hollow. Like something inside had been drawn out.

He straightened, then swayed.

“Brother...” he said softly. “Did something happen? Did I... do something?”

Doran turned to him, eyes softer now but still unreadable.

“I’m not completely sure,” he said. “But everything shifted when your emotions did. That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

He stepped forward and placed a hand on Mors’s shoulder.

“Don’t think on it too hard now. We’ll talk later—after I take care of something.”

Then he turned to where Areo Hotah stood, silent and alert.

Doran leaned in, whispered something only Areo could hear.

The big man’s expression darkened instantly. His usual calm turned sharp. Dangerous.

Areo gave a small nod, then stepped away.

Doran kissed Mellario gently on the temple.

“Stay with Mors. Help him to his quarters—he needs rest. I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded, already reaching for Mors’s arm.

Doran and Areo strode off together, their footsteps measured—but heavy with purpose.

Mors tried to rise, but staggered.

Mellario caught him without hesitation, then called out softly. Two handmaidens rushed to help, guiding him gently inside.

As they walked, Mors felt the pressure still humming in his chest.

The grief was there. The anger too. But something else had awakened with it.

'That... wasn’t normal,' he thought, recalling the way the air had shifted, how everyone around him had reacted—like something had passed through all of them.

Even Doran had noticed.

'They all felt it.'

And deep down, he was certain it was tied to the power inside him—the aura he’d kept hidden.

'Looks like it’s time I talk to the family about it.'

Chapter Text

Mors woke to a shaft of sunlight cutting across his face. The room was quiet—too quiet. He blinked slowly, then sat up, confused. The sun had already climbed high—late morning, nearly noon.

‘Strange. I never sleep this long.’

He rubbed his face, frowning. As he moved, something felt… off. Not wrong, but different. His limbs still held a trace of fatigue—but underneath that, there was something else.

More strength.

He stood, stretching experimentally. His balance had shifted, subtly. His body felt heavier in the best way—denser, more alive. He flexed his fingers. Jumped once, landing in a crouch. His muscles responded instantly.

‘Could it be… that my aura wasn’t fully awake before? And yesterday’s events triggered something?’

The question hung in his mind—until the dizziness hit. It wasn’t overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He sat back on the bed.

‘Testing can wait. I need to recover properly first.’

A sudden knock. Then the door burst open—Morica, one of the palace maids, rushed in, clearly breathless.

“My prince! Are you well? I heard a noise—are you hurt?”

Mors offered a half-smile. “I’m fine, thanks, Morica. Just a little hungrier than usual.”

She exhaled in relief. “Lunch will be ready soon, but if you want something light…”

“Please. That would help.”

A short while later, with a tray of fruit, bread, and lemon water finished, Mors made his way to the family solar.

Doran stood over maps, studying the Stepstones with Mellario. Areo Hotah lingered like a statue nearby, eyes scanning the room with silent vigilance. But his Mother and Jeremy were absent—that worried him.

As Mors entered, Doran turned—and a long, quiet breath left him.

“Thank the gods,” Doran said. “You’re awake.”

Mors offered a faint nod. “Still tired. But strangely… I feel better than before.”

Doran raised a brow but said nothing.

Mors’s sat in a chair, gaze shifted. “Mother?”

Doran’s expression darkened slightly. “She’s… not as well as she pretends. Joanna’s death. Maron’s… it’s too much. She was restless all night, calling out names of the dead in her sleep. Without Jeremy, I don’t know how she would’ve made it through the night.”

Mors blinked. “Jeremy?”

Doran nodded. “He’s been guarding Mother’s quarters. Hasn’t left her side once. I didn’t realize they were that close.”

‘I did,’ Mors thought silently. ‘Or I suspected.’

Doran continued, voice quiet. “She’s had more milk of the poppy, but it’s been hard without Maester Orthar.”

“What do you mean?”

Doran’s voice flattened. “He had an accident last night. He didn’t make it.”

Mors stared. Then—he caught it. A flicker of something sharp in Doran’s eyes. Cruelty? Rage? It was gone in a second, but Mors saw it.

He said nothing.

Doran hesitated, then added, “We’re also… not certain about Aunt Mellei.”

“What?” Mors straightened. “You mean she might be alive?”

Doran didn’t answer immediately.

“Her body hasn’t been found. We… can’t rule anything out.”

Silence swept the room. Mellario stood and took Doran’s hand. Her presence was steady, even though her eyes were glassy. She knew her husband’s heart better than most—and she could feel the storm brewing beneath his calm.

Mors stood sharply, fists clenched. Fury surged through him—not just at the pirates, but at the Free Cities, at the Crown, at the realm itself. The walls trembled faintly. Everyone in the room felt it—an invisible wave of heat and pressure, like a sudden shift in gravity.

Then it was gone.

Mors blinked down at his hands. His muscles twitched, he felt a sudden and sharp increase in strength, almost like a boost of raw energy. Then the strength vanished as quickly as it came. He staggered and sank into a chair.

Areo moved instantly. Mellario reached for him.

“I’m fine,” Mors muttered.

Doran watched him, eyes sharp with calculation.

Then he exhaled. “That… whatever that was. It wasn’t normal.”

Mors said nothing.

Doran continued, tone thoughtful as he looked out the window. “I searched through some of our records last night. Our Valyrian blood is thin. There’s no record of anything like this—no strength, no speed, no aura, no magical precedent of any kind. We’ve never had the chance to try taming a dragon, so there’s no record of that either. Whatever you possess—it’s unrecorded. Unique to you.”

He paused. “But we have more pressing matters for now. We’ll speak of this again. Tonight. In my solar.”

Mors nodded.

Doran shifted the conversation. “I’ve sent word to Lewyn about Maron and Mellei. Manfrey will be devastated. And Oberyn… well. You know how he is.”

Mors said nothing, but looked down in thought.

“We’ve also written to the Small Council about the pirate threat. But I don’t expect much to come of it.”

Mors’s jaw clenched. “Then we’ll handle it ourselves.”

Doran studied him a moment. Then gave a slow, grim nod. “Yes. I think we should. But not yet. Let Mother recover first, a decision like this needs our ruler to decide. We’ll move when the time is right.”

The solar smelled of ink and old cedar. A low flame flickered in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the sandstone walls. Scrolls lay stacked on the long table, most left untouched. Doran stood by the window, arms folded behind his back, watching the darkening sky roll in over Sunspear. The breeze was cool—but carried an ominous edge.

Mors stepped inside, quiet but not cautious. He could feel it—tonight’s conversation would not be casual.

Doran turned at the sound of the door closing behind him.

“I think you’re old enough for this,” he said in a low voice.

He gave a wry smile. “You’ve shown more discipline, more strategic sense—more restraint—than most men twice your age. Even Oberyn, though gods help me, that isn’t a high bar.”

Mors exhaled softly, a hint of humor in his voice. “Yeah… he’s a unique case, that one.”

Doran chuckled, then let the humor fade.

“I killed Maester Orthar.”

Mors blinked. No buildup. No justification. Just the truth, dropped like a blade between them.

“I noticed something wrong in his eyes,” Doran continued, his voice tightening. “Too much interest. Too much calculation. So I took Areo. We paid him a visit. And... we persuaded him to talk.”

A pause. No apology in his tone—just weariness.

“The realm outside Dorne is dangerous enough. But you? You’re something else entirely. Just your Targaryen blood makes you a target. But now... your gifts are drawing attention. Dangerous attention.”

He stepped closer, eyes sharp. “You don’t know this, but in the last three years or so… we’ve stopped three assassination attempts against you.”

Mors didn’t respond at first. His eyes widened, locking onto Doran in stunned silence.

Doran nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to know. That was the point. The first came shortly after your accident—poison in your water. The rest, we stopped before they could act. But I can’t say how many more might still be hiding around us.”

Doran turned to Mors fully now.

“We found poison—three kinds—in the maester’s quarters. Hidden compartments. There were also notes... assessments. Incomplete, thank the gods. Observations about your recovery, your strength, how quickly you were healing.”

He paused.

“I don’t believe the reports were ever sent. But I can’t be certain. He admitted under pressure that he’d shared some details of your progress. He didn’t name who, but...” Doran exhaled sharply. “My guess is the Citadel.”

Mors sat, slowly. His hands gripped the edge of the chair.

“They really saw me as that much of a threat?”

Doran didn’t answer. But he’d heard the stories—whispers of how the Citadel dealt with magic… and those who dared wield it. He also remembered troubling reports—boys dying in Planky Town under mysterious circumstances.

He murmured to himself, almost too softly to hear, “This might go deeper than I thought.”

But Mors caught it. His brow furrowed—though he said nothing.

After a moment, he changed course.

“You’re building a personal guard with Jeremy, yes?”

Mors nodded. “We’ve started. He was supposed to evaluate a promising recruit yesterday, but... everything got derailed.”

“Good. Make sure it includes people skilled in assassination, countermeasures, interrogation. You need people who think like assassins—and know how to find them.”

He hesitated, then added, “I’ll help with that.”

Mors looked at him with something unreadable, as if seeing something for the first time he hadn’t let himself believe until now.

Doran caught it and smiled faintly. “I know. Surprised, huh? Just remember—it takes more than honor to stay Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken. Especially when the might of six kingdoms—seven, if you count the Riverlands—comes to conquer you, led by dragonriders.”

He paused, his voice softening. “Everything I know... I learned from Mother.”

Mors nodded dumbly once. “I see...”

And for the first time, he saw Doran not just as his brother—but as a man shaped to lead, trained to fight, and willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure Dorne’s survival and success.He saw him—truly—as The Prince of Dorne.

Chapter Text

There was silence in the room

Doran turned back to the window, voice steady. “I said all this so you’d understand the truth. This isn’t just talent. What happened yesterday—and today—this is something else entirely.”

He turned again. His eyes were quiet, but firm.

“This is magic, Mors. I never believed in it before. But I do now.”

Silence passed between them. The fire crackled once.

Then Mors spoke.

“It started with the fall,” he said. “After I woke, things just… changed. I was stronger. Faster. I healed quicker. I could think more clearly. React better. Everything felt sharper. And the more I trained, the more it grew. Like it amplified my growth the harder I pushed.”

Doran nodded, almost to himself. “So that explains the... unusual training routines.”

Mors winced slightly. “Some were stupid. Swimming in quicksand might’ve been... ill-advised.”

Doran chuckled. “And suicidal.”

Mors smirked, then continued. “Over time, I started to notice something else. When I trained with others—if I really focused, really got into it—they got better too. Faster. Sharper. More in sync.”

Doran straightened. “You projected it?”

“Not intentionally,” Mors said. “But it happened. And it drained me faster when it did. Not enough to collapse, but noticeable. I can sustain a light projection... indefinitely, as long as I don’t push too hard.”

Doran’s face shifted from intrigue to astonishment.

“The applications... do you realize how valuable that is? Gods, you could empower entire units.”

“I haven’t tested how far it can go,” Mors admitted. “Yesterday and today... were accidents. I lost control.”

Doran’s expression darkened. “Then we need to be careful. You can’t afford to misstep.”

Mors nodded, then hesitated.

Doran saw it immediately. “There’s more?”

Mors met his gaze, voice quieter now. “Today... after you mentioned Mellei might still be alive—I felt something different. Stronger. Sharper. I didn’t just project. I changed. My strength—doubled. It felt like I tapped into a deeper layer.”

Doran blinked. For once, he looked completely unmoored.

“You... triggered it on emotion?”

“I think so,” Mors said. “I wanted to be stronger. And I was. Just for a moment.”

Doran turned away and walked to the window again, gripping the edge of the frame.

“That’s... gods. In a duel, in battle—”

“It’s not limitless,” Mors interrupted. “It drained me badly. But yes. It’s real.”

Doran stayed silent for a long moment.

Then he turned. “We need to train you. Immediately. Strategically. If this gets out... if someone catches wind of what you are before we’re ready—”

“They’ll kill me,” Mors said quietly.

“Yes,” Doran agreed grimly. “Or worse—they might try to experiment on you.”

They let that settle.

Then Doran exhaled. “I’ll have to tell Mother. She needs to know.”

Mors nodded. “Aside from her... we should tell the others too.”

“Elia?” Doran asked.

“Yes. Oberyn. Lewyn. Manfrey. Jeremy, obviously. He’s completely loyal.”

Doran didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed slightly. “He seems to be.”

“I trust him,” Mors said.

Doran nodded, reluctantly. “Very well.”

“And Mellario,” Mors added. “Maybe even Areo.”

That gave Doran pause. He stared at Mors for a long moment.

“I understand Mellario,” he said. “But Areo? Why?”

Mors’s voice was sure. “Because he’s loyal to her. And by extension, to you. His faith, his upbringing—it makes him incorruptible. And his strength? I’ve never seen anything like it. He could help train me. Sharpen the edge.”

Doran nodded slowly. “All right. That makes sense. Then it’s settled.”

They stood there in silence, side by side, watching as clouds gathered beyond the window. The breeze picked up, cool and heavy. Thunder rumbled distantly—just enough to set the glass humming.

After a while, Doran spoke again, softer now.

“I think we should prevent any marriage alliances for you... outside of Dorne.”

Mors turned slightly, surprised. “You’ve always favored political alliances. Why?”

Doran’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “It’s too dangerous. Outside our walls, no one will understand what you are. They’ll try to control it. Or destroy it. Maybe the North would accept it. But the rest of the realm? They can’t be trusted.”

He exhaled. “Better to bind ourselves tighter to someone we can manage. The Daynes. The Yronwoods—though I don’t trust them. Not fully. But the Daynes... they may be the key.”

Mors considered that. Then nodded.

“I’ll follow your guidance.”

Doran finally smiled again. “Good. Go rest. We have hard days ahead.”

Mors inclined his head and turned to leave. But as he stepped into the hall, he caught a flash of white lightning over the distant sea. The rumble followed a few heartbeats later, low and ominous.

He paused.

A storm was brewing.

Two weeks had passed.

Sunspear, though never a quiet place, had taken on a hush in the wake of Maron Martell’s death. Grief moved through the halls like a cautious ghost. Guards spoke softer. Courtiers walked slower. The echo of sandals against stone seemed to linger too long.

Lewyn Martell returned at last, the banner of the Spears of the Sun rippling behind him. He rode at the head of the column—Oberyn and Manfrey flanking him, their faces carved from fire and ash. Oberyn looked ready to kill something. Manfrey looked like he already had.

A quiet funeral was held the next morning. Mors stood beside Doran and Elia as they looked down on what remained of their uncle. One arm gone. Dozens of wounds, old and new. But clutched in his dead hand—shattered glass from what must have been a Myrish noble’s necklace. The pieces shimmered in the sunlight, too delicate for a battlefield.

Mors stared at them, jaw clenched. 'He took something with him, even at the end.'

Loreza did not speak during the ceremony. She stood tall, but there was a thinness to her presence. As if part of her had already departed with Maron.

That night, she retired early. Jeremy followed her, silent and steadfast.

Lewyn didn’t linger.By dawn, he was gone—riding out with an elite unit of the Spears. No farewells. No ceremony. Just steel, silence, and grim determination.

Doran had forbidden Oberyn and Manfrey from joining him.

“They’re too volatile,” he told Mors in the solar. “Let Lewyn scout first. Once we know where to strike—we strike hard.”

Oberyn stormed out the moment he heard. Manfrey didn’t speak. He only stared, jaw clenched, before turning and walking away.

Mors sighed softly. “Leave them to me. I’ll try to contain their fury—at least until we can unleash it properly.”

Later that afternoon, Mors found Oberyn and Manfrey pacing the practice yard like caged wolves. Rage had settled into their bones.

Without a word, he grabbed a spear and stepped into the ring.

“Both of you. Come at me.”

Oberyn blinked. “Together?”

Mors just nodded.

The fight that followed was fast, brutal, and stunning. Spears blurred in the air. Sand exploded underfoot. Oberyn’s speed, Manfrey’s precision— both impressive, both relentless—but neither could break Mors’s defense. He flowed like liquid iron, untouchable and unrelenting.

When he finally disarmed Manfrey and twisted Oberyn to the ground, even the servants watching from the corridor gasped.

Oberyn lay there, breathing hard, eyes wide. “What in the seven hells have you been eating?”

Mors offered a hand. “Discipline.”

They both took it.

Now under the shade, silence fell between them. At nearly fourteen, Mors stood eye to eye with Oberyn at 5’11” (180 cm), and was already an inch taller than Manfrey, who had reached 5’10” (178 cm).

Mors broke the quiet, resting a hand on both their shoulders.

“I’m as furious as you are,” he said. “I want to avenge Uncle Maron—and save or recover Aunt Mellei, whatever it takes.”

He looked between them. “But we can’t be divided. Not now. We need to focus. Let the anger build until we can unleash it—together.”

Oberyn bristled. “We’re going to skin them alive.”

Manfrey didn’t speak, but he nodded grimly.

Mors’s voice lowered, firm and steady. “That we are. And more.”

He looked toward the horizon, his words steel.

“They’ll learn why Dorne is Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken.”

Three days later, a letter arrived from the Hand of the King. It was wrapped in Lannister red and sealed with wax thick as blood.

Doran read it aloud in the council chamber.

“The Crown is grieved to hear of the passing of Lord Maron Martell. It acknowledges the tragic loss and recognizes the growing threat in the Stepstones. A fleet of five warships is being sent to assist in patrol and deterrence.”

Silence followed.

“Five ships?” Elia muttered.

“Five,” Doran confirmed, folding the parchment.

Oberyn swore. Manfrey punched the stone wall hard enough to bleed. Loreza said nothing.

Mors stood with folded arms, watching his mother. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap.

'They’ll never move for us,' he thought bitterly. ‘Even after all this… Dorne was still an afterthought to the rest of the realm.'

That evening, Doran called a gathering in the main solar. Loreza sat upright but pale. Jeremy stood at her back. Mellario was present, as were Elia, Oberyn, and Manfrey.

Doran looked at them all, then nodded to Mors. “They deserve to know.”

Mors explained—quietly, simply. The strength, the reflexes, the healing. The projection of his aura. The recent surge. He didn’t embellish.

When he finished, silence held the room.

Oberyn’s brow furrowed. “Wait—you’ve secretly been giving us a boost while we train?”

Mors cracked a smile. “Not intentionally.”

Even Loreza smiled faintly at that.

Then her expression changed. “I cannot lead like this,” she said softly. “I’ve tried to hold myself together, but I feel the cracks. I see ghosts in the halls. Hear Maron’s voice at night. I won’t let my grief steer Dorne.”

She turned to Doran.

“I name you my Hand. And Regent of Dorne. Until I recover fully… or choose to step down entirely—or the gods take me.”

Doran’s eyes widened. “Mother… are you certain?”

Loreza nodded. “More certain than I’ve been about anything in weeks.”

The next morning, Mors found Doran in the solar, hunched over military ledgers and campaign charts.

“I want in,” he said simply. “With the Spears. All of it.”

Doran looked up, studying him for a long moment.

“I suppose denying you now would be pointless,” he said at last. “You’re ready—maybe more than most.”

He sighed, setting the quill aside. “I know you haven’t exactly been taking it easy… but this changes everything, Mors. You can still step back. Let us adults carry the burden.”

Mors shook his head, eyes steady. “I won’t change my mind.”

Doran watched him a moment longer, then gave a quiet nod. “Very well. I’ll approve your request. When Lewyn returns, I’ll inform him.”

He paused. “But one condition—Jeremy goes with you.”

Mors didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

Three days later, Lewyn returned.

They met in Loreza’s private solar. She sat on a chaise, Jeremy beside her. Doran stood near the window. Elia was there, as were Oberyn and Manfrey. Mors leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

Lewyn laid out maps and parchment. “No sign of Mellei’s body. But we found Myrish weapons, trade seals, and several dead pirates with noble adornments. One had a ledger. It’s in High Valyrian—coded. But it links several raids to Myrish trade ports.”

Doran frowned. “Not Tyrosh, then. Myr.”

Lewyn nodded. “They’ve been funding these pirates for years.”

Doran looked at Loreza.

“This is no longer just a matter of vengeance. It’s a matter of kingdoms.”

Mors stepped forward. “Then let the kingdoms wait. The pirates die first.”

Doran’s eyes gleamed. “Well said.” He turned to Lewyn. “Uncle—do we know where they’re based?”

“Lower Stepstones. A broken island chain. Deep harbors. Fortified.”

Doran turned to Loreza.

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, once—slow and deliberate.

Doran lifted his chin. “Then... we go to war.”

Lewyn followed, voice like stone. “We go to war.”

Oberyn’s eyes burned. “We go to war!”

Manfrey’s voice was quieter, but firm. “We go to war.”

Beside Loreza, Elia reached for her mother’s hand. She didn’t speak—but her fingers trembled.

Mors stood still, watching them all. The weight of it settled into his bones.He exhaled, then murmured, “Then war it is.”

And in the silence that followed, thunder rumbled outside the tower.

A storm was coming.

And this time, Dorne would not weather it.

It would ride it.

End of Arc I — The Making of the Spear

Chapter Text

Early 270 AC – POV: Lewyn Martell

The throne room of Sunspear was quieter than usual. Formal, orderly, but quieter. Lewyn Martell crossed the tiled floor with steady strides, dust still clinging to his boots from the road. He was dressed in the armor of the Spears—not for show, but because he hadn’t stopped moving since dawn.

He caught his brother’s eye as he entered. Maron gave a curt nod. Lewyn responded with one of his own, then advanced to the foot of the dais and knelt before Princess Loreza.

“Your Grace,” he said simply. “The dispute between House Yronwood and House Fowler has been settled. Terms have been signed. No blades drawn.”

Loreza inclined her head, her expression unreadable but calm. “Well done, Ser Lewyn. I expected nothing less.”

He stepped aside and moved to the shadowed wall beneath the eastern banners, arms folded as he waited for court to end. He didn’t enjoy the pageantry. Never had. But some duties weren’t optional. He scanned the gathered lords, their attendants, the flicker of embroidered cloaks, the rustle of soft shoes on stone. Everything here moved slower than the road—but the blades were better concealed.

When court was finally dismissed, Loreza rose. Maron fell into step beside her. She didn’t speak until they reached the entrance to her private solar, a place Lewyn knew well—warm sandstone walls, thick rugs, a view that overlooked the gardens. When the door shut behind them, she exhaled deeply.

Then she turned.

“I’ve approved it,” she said without ceremony. “The boys are to begin training with the Spears.”

Lewyn’s brow rose. “Oberyn and Manfrey?”

Loreza nodded. “Yes. And Mors.”

Lewyn blinked.

“…Mors?”

His voice carried no judgment—but it was edged with disbelief.

“Forgive me, sister, but… he’s ten. He’s always been watched more closely than the others, protected more fiercely. You told me once he wasn’t meant for the field.”

Loreza’s face shifted. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked to Maron.

“Might as well find out now,” he said with a small nod.

Loreza returned her gaze to Lewyn—and for a moment, she looked older. Not tired, not worn. Just weighted.

“Mors nearly died,” she said softly. “Two moons ago. Racing on sand-steeds with Oberyn and Manfrey. There was a fall—bad. Neck snapped, they thought. But he survived. And not just survived. He recovered in days. Weeks later, he was stronger than before.”

Lewyn frowned. “Maesters?”

“They had no explanation. None that held water.”

She turned toward the window then, as if needing distance from her own words.

“He’s been different ever since. Sharper. Quieter. Stronger.”

Lewyn stayed silent, but his shoulders stiffened.

“That alone,” Loreza continued, “would not have changed my mind. But it wasn’t the only reason.”

She turned back to face him—and this time, her composure cracked just enough for him to see the fire behind it.

“Someone tried to poison my son.”

Lewyn didn’t move.

It took a beat to register.

Then: “What?”

She nodded, slowly, deliberately. “He was targeted. The food was laced—meant to look like a fever. Doran caught the one responsible. A low-ranking servant. Quiet. Clever.”

She exhaled sharply, and when she spoke again, her voice was steel.

“He killed himself before we could make him talk—bit off his own tongue and choked on the blood before we got a name. Still, Doran has once again proven himself a capable Master of Whisperers… for Dorne, at least.”

Lewyn stared at her. Then at Maron. Then back.

“And you don’t know who sent him?”

Loreza’s jaw tightened. “That’s the worst part. We have no idea. It could’ve been a bribe. A plant. Spies from the Water Gardens. The septon. Even the Citadel.”

Silence pressed down on the solar like a stone slab.

Lewyn’s fists curled slowly at his sides.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t curse. But the shift in his body was unmistakable—shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes narrowed like a drawn bow.

He looked like a man one step away from unsheathing something sharp.

“Tell me where,” he said quietly. “Give me a name, a direction. I’ll handle the rest.”

Loreza didn’t answer.

There was nothing to give.

She only said,“I’ve already started tightening security. The guards will be vetted, the servants reviewed—no one enters the Water Gardens or Sunspear without clearance. Doran will see to it.”

Lewyn exhaled through his nose, still glaring at the floor like he could burn it to ash with enough will.

Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes.

“…Do you want me to pass them?”

It was quiet. Honest. No edge of sarcasm. No mockery. Just a soldier asking if this was a mission or a formality.

Loreza actually laughed. A brittle, tired sound.

“By the gods, no. If they’re to earn their place, they earn it. I just wanted you to know what’s at stake.”

“They fail, they stay here. They’re still boys,” she added. “But boys who know how to fight are harder to kill.”

Maron folded his arms, finally speaking again. “I’ve already started them on basic drills. You’ll be surprised.”

Lewyn looked between them.

He didn’t speak for a while.

Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Very well. I’ll test them. All three.”

He turned toward the door, pausing just before leaving.

“If anyone else tries to harm them…” His voice dropped low.

“They won’t get a second chance to choke.”

Late 272 AC – POV: Loreza Martell

The solar of Casterly Rock was draped in silence when they entered—only the soft ticking of a gold-and-ebony clock broke the stillness. The windows had been shuttered despite the daylight. The fire burned low in the hearth, but the room still felt cold.

Tywin Lannister sat alone behind his broad lion-carved desk, a ledger closed before him, his hands steepled. Kevan stood beside him, stiff as a pillar, saying nothing.

When Princess Loreza Martell and Prince Maron of Dorne stepped into the room, Tywin did not rise.

He only stared.

A long, unreadable look.

The kind of stare a lion might give when deciding whether something was food or furniture.

Loreza met it with equal stillness. Maron bowed first, followed by Loreza’s brief, regal nod.

After a beat, Tywin finally spoke.

“Princess. Prince. Welcome to Casterly Rock,” he said, voice dry as parchment. “I regret the timing of your visit.”

It was a formality. Nothing more.

Loreza’s expression didn’t shift. “We regret it as well, Lord Tywin. And we offer our sincerest condolences. Lady Joanna was… deeply respected.”

Maron added, “And dearly missed. Her memory shines even in Dorne.”

For a moment, something flickered in Tywin’s eyes. Pain? Recognition? It was impossible to say. But then it vanished beneath a steel gaze.

“She spoke fondly of you,” Tywin said, voice tight. “Though I suspect she underestimated your resolve.”

Loreza didn’t rise to it. “We honored each other as women with duty on our shoulders. And we understood how rare that was.”

Tywin gave a small, sharp nod, then looked to Maron briefly as he answered a question about the road, the weather, the Arbor wines—whatever had been pouring from Maron’s mouth with practiced ease.

Kevan watched quietly. He was always the gentler of the two, but still stone in moments like this.

Finally, Tywin raised a hand.

“Enough.”

The room stilled.

He turned his gaze on Loreza again, eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight.

“What do you want?”

The question dropped like a blade. Not even dressed up as diplomacy.

Loreza, for a moment, said nothing. Then she inhaled slowly.

“I came because Joanna once spoke of the possibility of tying our houses more closely. Through our children. We both agreed that—”

Tywin cut her off with a breath through the nose. Sharp. Controlled.

“I am aware of what she said. Joanna… spoke of many things.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze fixed like a crossbow bolt.

“But the truth, Princess, is this—Cersei will not be tied to Dorne. Jaime has a duty. And Casterly Rock does not bow to sentiment. They will continue my legacy here, where it belongs.”

The words were final. Flat. Irrefutable.

Loreza nodded once, her face unreadable. Maron tensed beside her but said nothing.

Tywin tilted his head.

“But,” he continued, and now there was a hint of something else in his voice—mockery, or maybe something darker, “I do believe my… newborn son could be a perfect match for Dorne.”

He let the silence hang there. Let the insult settle.

Loreza didn’t flinch. But Maron’s jaw tightened visibly.

Tywin went on, ever so calm.

“He’s already caused enough scandal by existing. Perhaps he can serve some use. I can train him to be... acceptable by dornish standards.”

Loreza’s eyes sharpened, just slightly. “You would have me betroth Elia to your infant son?”

“I would offer the prospect,” Tywin said coolly. “As a gesture of goodwill. And to ensure that no one forgets Dorne is still beneath the Rock.”

A moment passed.

Then Tywin added, as if it were nothing:

“Of course, I also propose your son, Mors, be sent here as a ward.”

That made Loreza still. Utterly.

“He could learn much under my care,” Tywin continued. “Refinement. Duty. What his place is in this realm.”

Kevan finally stirred, as if even he thought the suggestion bold.

Maron opened his mouth—but Loreza raised a hand.

Her eyes hadn’t left Tywin’s.

“After everything you’ve said, you’d still take my youngest son,” she said, like a blade drawn slow. “Bring him into your home. ‘Teach’ him who he is.”

Tywin said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Loreza’s voice dropped slightly, silk wrapping around steel. In that moment, she looked like Nymeria reborn.

“You offer an infant that you yourself call a ‘monster’. You suggest my son be raised in the cold shadow of a grieving lion. And you call that alliance?”

She stepped forward, only a fraction—but it was enough.

“We came here out of respect. Out of mourning. But make no mistake, Lord Tywin —we are not here to beg for your favor. Remember our words. We have them for a reason.”

She straightened, her composure regal and unyielding.

“I understand this may be your grief speaking… but if this is how the West repays old friendships, then perhaps we finally understand each other.”

Tywin's gaze flicked to Maron, then back to Loreza.

She turned—regal and cold—and walked out, Maron at her side.

Kevan glanced at his brother, unsure of what he’d just witnessed.

Tywin stared into the fire, eyes narrowing.

He hadn’t expected gratitude. He’d meant only to provoke Loreza.

But for the first time in years, something shifted beneath his feet. Perhaps… he had overreached.

Late 273 AC – POV: Jeremy Norridge

The garden terrace was quiet. A warm breeze stirred the lemon trees, their blossoms scattering faint sweetness into the air. The tea steamed gently between them, untouched.

Princess Loreza sat with her hands folded in her lap, her posture elegant but brittle—like porcelain beginning to show its cracks. Her robes hung looser on her frame than before. The color hadn’t faded, but the strength behind it had.

Jeremy Norridge sat across from her, still in half-armor, having not changed after drills. He said nothing for a while. Just watched her.

Then quietly, he asked, “Have you been eating?”

Loreza didn’t answer with words. She gave a low hum—acknowledgment, not assurance.

Jeremy sighed and leaned forward slightly. “Enough?”

She was silent again.

The breeze picked up, rustling her veil.

“I…” Loreza began, voice soft, halting. “I feel hollow. As if there’s less of me inside my skin.”

She swallowed, eyes fixed on the untouched tea.

“So many deaths. Lewyn’s always been the strongest of us, but Maron…” She paused, her voice catching. “Maron was my rock. For all these years. Quiet, steady… my support.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her cup but didn’t lift it.

“Joanna’s death struck hard, yes. But she wasn’t family. Not truly. Not in blood.”

She closed her eyes.

“But Maron… gods. And Mellei… she was the sister I never knew I needed. She came into our lives like a tide—gentle, constant, anchoring. She was good to him. To us. And now…”

Her words faltered. She choked softly, then held her breath until it passed.

Jeremy said nothing at first. Then, softly, “My princess. Loreza…”

He waited until she looked at him.

“You are not alone. You’ve never been.”

He offered a tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And if my… interests were different, we might have been something more. But friendship—true friendship—is not lesser.”

“You have people, Loreza. Lewyn. Oberyn. Elia. Mors. And especially Doran. That boy has carried a man’s weight since he was fifteen. He’s ready for more—he’s been ready for a while.”

Loreza exhaled. Her fingers curled around the cup, finally lifting it.

“You don’t need to lead every moment,” Jeremy continued. “You just need to be here. Present. Healthy. That’s all they truly need from you. They will handle everything else.”

He hesitated, watching her carefully.

“And Mors…” he said, slower now. “He’s more insightful—and more capable—than anyone his age has a right to be. More than I expected. Truth is… he practically doesn’t need me.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Include him. He’s already thinking ahead—strategies, reforms, the kind of plans grown men avoid. He speaks like someone who understands what’s coming and is preparing for it.”

Loreza looked down into her tea.

“…He reminds me of Daeron.”

Jeremy smiled faintly. “That’s not a coincidence.”

There was silence again. Not the empty kind. The kind that settled over something shared and understood.

Loreza raised the cup, drank quietly. Then she said, without looking at him, “Doran’s been watching Mors closely since the Water Garden incident. He’s begun keeping records… theories. Trying to make sense of it.”

She looked up, her voice quieter now. “You’ve seen it too.”

Jeremy nodded. “I have.”

He leaned back, arms folding across his chest. “It’s not normal. Not natural, at least—not by what we know. But it’s real. And it’s growing.”

Loreza stared into her cup. “He frightens me sometimes. Not because I think he’ll fail… but because I think he might not. Because I don’t know what he’ll become.”

Jeremy was silent for a while. Then he looked out toward the garden, watching the blossoms stir in the breeze.

“Then guide him while you still can,” he said softly. “He’s still your son. Whatever lives inside him—whatever this becomes—he’s still your boy.”

Loreza didn’t respond. But this time, she didn’t feel quite as hollow.

Chapter Text

Late 273 AC - Three months later.

The sea was calm, unnervingly so.

Two black-sailed patrol ships, painted in black, skimmed across moonlit waters like whispers made flesh, hulls cutting the waves without sound. Above, no lanterns burned. Only the stars and a sliver of moon cast faint silver across the dark sea.

Mors stood at the prow of the lead ship, armored in the tight-fitting assault gear of the Spears—flexible, reinforced, designed for stealth and speed. No spear slung across his back tonight. Only a shortblade and twin daggers hidden beneath his sash and leg. Every step had to be quiet. Every breath, controlled.

Behind him, Oberyn crouched on a coil of rope, checking the edge of his curved dagger. “Gods, I love night raids,” he whispered. “Moonlight, knives, and a chance to scare some bastard slavers half to death.”

“Only half?” Manfrey said from his crouch beside the mast. “You’re going soft.”

“I said ‘half to death,’ not ‘half alive.’ There’s a difference.”

Mors ignored the exchange, eyes fixed on the approaching island. The silhouette of rocky cliffs and sparse brush gave way to a faint flicker of firelight—one torch, maybe two, near the upper ridge. The compound was just ahead.

He turned as Jeremy appeared beside him, silent despite his frame.

“All units ready,” the older knight murmured. “In position. On your call.”

Mors gave a short nod. “Once we hit land, we move fast—stick to the designated path. If they notice us, it’s already too late.”

Behind them, the team moved into final formation—silent, focused, ready.

Tahlor and Idrin, two handpicked recruits for Mors’s personal guard. Both trained killers. Quiet, fast, surgical. Idrin, rumor had it, was the younger brother of a Planky Town courtesan Oberyn used to visit.

Nael and Veyra, Mors’s original guards—no longer green, still loyal, and now far sharper than they had any right to be.

Oberyn’s pair, lean fighters from Ghoyan Drohe, favoring curved blades and throat-level strikes.

Manfrey’s duo, brothers from Salt Shore—stoic, methodical, and unnervingly in sync.

And eight Spears of the Sun, led by Lieutenant Salor Rym—a scarred veteran with two decades under Lewyn Martell. Hard, disciplined, ruthless when needed. Salor was Mors’s second-in-command tonight—Lewyn’s orders.

Mors inhaled, long and steady.

'Now.'

He raised two fingers. The signal.

The two boats split, gliding toward opposite ends of the cove. As their hulls kissed the shallows, boots met sand with the soft crunch of discipline. They disembarked quickly—low, wide, silent. No chainmail to give them away. Only tight assault gear, fast hands, and quiet steps. Shields were slung tight across their backs, snug enough not to rattle. Every motion had been drilled. Every breath measured.

Lewyn’s fleet was striking five miles to the south at this very moment—this was the second major engagement, and unlike the first assault, it wasn’t an ambush. It was direct, overwhelming, and designed to break their lines.

If this outpost was worth anything, its commanders would have sent reinforcements.

Which meant the compound ahead was likely undermanned.

Still deadly. Still dangerous—especially with three princes of Dorne in the field. But vulnerable.

The team moved up the slope in two waves.

As they approached the outer ridge, the first enemy appeared—a pirate guard, yawning, torch in hand.

Tahlor struck first, a blur of movement.

One hand around the man’s mouth, the other driving a dagger under his ribs. The guard dropped without sound. Idrin caught the torch before it hit the ground.

Mors waved the team forward. They passed through the first line of brush and reached the perimeter wall—half-broken stone, knee-height, probably meant to pen animals.

Inside, faint voices. Metal clinking. A fire.

They fanned out.

Mors moved beside Jeremy, Oberyn close behind. Salor and the Spears circled toward the north flank. Manfrey’s unit drifted south. The goal was simple: breach the compound, secure the captives, kill any pirate filth they found, and extract before reinforcements could arrive.

Oberyn whispered, “I’ll take the left tower.”

Mors nodded. “Don’t die.”

“Tonight is not the night I die.”

Mors sighed, muttering under his breath, “Gods, don’t say that…”

In the next breath, Oberyn melted into the shadows, his guards trailing after him like ghosts.

The plan went into motion.

Two guards patrolled the gate. Idrin flung a small stone to the left—both men turned. Veyra and Nael struck from the right, blades flashing, clean kills.

The gate creaked open.

Inside was a crude compound—three buildings, a corral, and a pit. The stench of sweat and salt hung heavy in the air. Most of the pirates were asleep in the main structure. A smaller shack held something that made Mors’s blood rise.

Cages.

Humans. Gaunt, dirty, chained.

One woman spotted them and froze, eyes wide with disbelief. Another called out in broken Valyrian, “Help… help…”

Jeremy stepped forward, already at work on the lock.

Suddenly—shouts.

“Enemies!”

A pirate heard some noise, stumbled out of the longhouse—saw the open gate, saw the figures in black—and screamed.

Steel rang.

Everything exploded.

Oberyn struck from above, leaping off the tower roof with a salvaged spear in hand. He landed in a crouch—fluid, deadly—and two pirates fell before they could draw breath. Without pause, he flowed into motion, engaging the next man in a blur of steel and fury.

The Spears surged forward. Mors led the charge, his aura pulsing outward—subtle, unseen, but potent. The team had been briefed and drilled under its influence. He maintained it at the lowest level he could sustain in extended combat—just enough to sharpen reflexes, steady hands, and hold fatigue at bay. And even at that level, it was devastatingly effective.

Manfrey took the east side. His team flanked fast, cutting through confused pirates. Salor’s Spears cleaved through a second group trying to rally from the forge. Tahlor and Idrin worked like twin shadows, slicing through anyone who turned their back.

Mors engaged the captain—a hulking brute with a spiked mace.

They circled, Mors dual-wielding his short sword and dagger. The pirate struck first—Mors dodged the initial blow, slipped beneath the second, and drove his dagger—held in a reverse grip—deep into the man’s thigh. The pirate howled and lunged. Mors pivoted, slammed a boot into his chest, then followed with a clean slash across the throat from his short sword. Blood sprayed. The man crumpled.

Mors yanked the dagger free and moved on.

Jeremy held the center—cutting, guarding, covering. For a moment he looked like a younger man again: fierce, focused, whole.

The last pirate turned to run.Mors dropped him with a dagger to the back—then walked over, ensured the man was dead, and calmly retrieved the blade.

Silence fell.

The men looked at Mors with quiet admiration. From behind, standing at 6'0" (183 cm) in his Spears of the Sun armor, with strands of platinum-blond and silver hair escaping his helmet, he looked like a god of war. And with his divine powers amplifying their abilities, it was easy to believe he truly was.

“Sweep the area—no stragglers,” Mors ordered.

The captives stared through the bars.

“We’re here to get you out,” Mors said.

They didn’t believe it at first.

Until one sobbed. Then another.

Then they reached through the bars, clawing at the air as if afraid he’d vanish.

Jeremy broke the locks.

“We’ve got fifteen,” he said. “Mostly women, and two children. One of them is Ser Qerrin Toland—a knight from a lesser branch of House Toland. He’s unconscious. Injured, but alive… no sign of Mellei.”

Mors’s jaw tightened. “Anything else?”

Manfrey emerged from the side room with a bundle of scrolls.

“A ledger. Coded—but it mentions movement. Several Dornish names, grouped separately. A ship left last week. It sailed northeast.”

“To Myr?”

“Not sure. Could be another island in the Stepstones—maybe even Tyrosh. It doesn’t say.”

Manfrey cursed in frustration under his breath. Oberyn placed a bloodied hand on his shoulder—a steadying touch, firm and grounding—but said nothing.

Mors stared at the fire, his mind calculating. ‘This isn’t the end. Just another link in the chain. But we need to move—fast.’

The Spears moved quickly—gathering survivors, binding wounds, stripping the bodies for usable gear. Quick and efficient. No prisoners.

As they prepared to withdraw, Mors stood at the center of the blood-streaked courtyard.His heart was steady. His mind clear.

“Move out,” he said firmly, wiping his blade. “We’ll take the long route—no risks with any pirates retreating this way.”

It’s been three months since Dorne decided to attack the pirate. The first two were spent gathering ships, selecting troops, drawing up campaign plans, and reinforcing merchant vessels to serve as makeshift transports.

Dorne is not a naval power—unfortunately. Their entire fleet consisted of:

5 Dornish warships (capacity: 50–75 each)

15 patrol boats (capacity: 10–15 each)

20 merchant ships (capacity: 100–160 each)

That was it. Not much of a fleet, but it had sufficed—so far.

Five merchant ships were seized and refitted as dedicated transport vessels for military use, while the rest had to remain in service for trade to keep Dorne’s economy functional.

The additional five Royal Warships sent from King’s Landing, though technically a token gesture, proved useful. Each carried 75–100 men and deployed 25 royal marines apiece—enough to reinforce key missions. Their presence helped, though some friction arose between the Dornish ranks and the Crown’s men.

One warship and five patrol boats remained in Dorne to defend the coast. The two patrol boats repurposed for Mors’s infiltration tonight came from this detachment.

In total, over 1,800 troops—including the Spears of the Sun—have been deployed across the Stepstones. Another 1,200 hold garrison positions at key defensive points in Dorne, ready to rotate into the front.

Lewyn Martell had been appointed overall commander and Admiral of the campaign. Nine of his lieutenants were assigned to lead larger detachments, with the Spears of the Sun serving as elite strike units under their command.

One such unit was designated for infiltration operations, placed under the leadership of Mors. Oberyn had initially been considered for the role, but he himself admitted he lacked the temperament. Manfrey was ruled out as well—too emotionally compromised by recent losses.

So the honor—and the burden—fell to Mors.

And with him, Lieutenant Salor Rym, the Spears’ most seasoned veteran, was named co-lead and advisor.

A month ago, Dorne launched a devastating surprise assault that wiped out nearly a quarter of the pirates stationed in the region. The strike was a tactical success—but it shattered the balance of power in the Stepstones.

Since then, the region has become a powder keg:

Volantis-backed pirates responded by forming a loose “alliance” with Dorne—an arrangement cunningly orchestrated by Doran to divide the chaos. They began attacking rival factions from the east, though their true motives remain suspect.

Lys-backed captains declared neutrality, but quickly turned to opportunistic raids wherever advantage beckoned.

Myrish pirates, reeling from their losses in the initial assault, began regrouping and rebuilding—covertly instigating support through spies and whispers. A number of Tyroshi ships answered their call, claiming old debts or shared grudges.

Yet other Tyroshi crews stayed true to form—opportunists to the core. They struck wherever profit glimmered, shifting allegiances as easily as their gaudy sails.

And the independents, loyal to no city and no flag, did what they always had: looted, burned, and vanished into smoke.

The Stepstones had always been lawless. But now—they were burning.

Chapter Text

The ships docked in silence just after dawn. No fanfare, just the soft lapping of waves and the creak of worn hulls brushing Sunspear's stone piers.

As the rescued were helped off—shivering, hungry, eyes wide with disbelief—the men of the Spears broke into quiet motion. Supplies were distributed. Wounds were dressed. The freed captives were ushered to warmth and rest.

Mors stepped onto the pier, gaze heavy. Jeremy landed beside him with quiet steadiness, Lieutenant Salor close behind. Behind them, the others began to disembark.

Manfrey said nothing.

He stood for a moment near the rail, eyes distant, fists clenched—then turned away.

“I’m going to the training grounds,” he muttered without looking back.

Mors, Oberyn, and Jeremy watched him go.

Oberyn exhaled. “I’ll accompany him. He’ll need someone to be with him, even if he won’t say it.”

Mors gave a tired smile and nodded. “Don’t let him break his wrist on a tree.”

“No promises,” Oberyn said, and walked off after his cousin.

Mors turned toward the keep. “Let’s go.”

Jeremy and Salor followed without a word.

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They found Doran Martell in the solar, a room now transformed into the beating heart of Dorne’s war. The meeting had ended not long before—the chamber still smelled faintly of ink, wax, and sweat.

Doran stood at the long table, leaning over a map of the Stepstones. Battle markers littered its surface—some freshly moved, others clustered where decisions still hung in the air. He didn’t look up at first, still absorbed in the quiet weight of command.

Mellario sat nearby, sorting documents and handwritten accounts. Elia leaned close beside Doran, pointing to a new courier dispatch.

Princess Loreza reclined in a high-backed chair in the corner, dressed in quiet dignity. She no longer wore her full ceremonial attire. Her posture was regal, but her eyes gave her away—dark, tired, watching the door even as she gave counsel.

And behind them all stood Areo Hotah, silent as ever, a mountain of stillness with a poleaxe at his side.

When Mors entered, the room changed.

Faces lifted. The tension in the air shifted—ever so slightly. The firelight danced differently against the brass fittings of the table.

But when they realized Oberyn and Manfrey weren’t with him, a ripple of concern passed through the room.

Mors gave a soft sigh. “The mission was a success. The captives are safe. But... Mellei wasn’t there.”

Loreza closed her eyes.

“Manfrey took it hard,” Mors continued. “He went to train. Or hit something. Oberyn followed him.”

The room fell still. No one spoke. After three months, the hope of finding Mellei alive had thinned to a thread. The best-case scenario—the one none of them dared voice—was that she had died quickly. Without pain. Without suffering.

Doran pressed his fingers together, gaze distant but sharp.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Mors stepped forward and gestured to Salor.

“We found fifteen captives, mostly smallfolk, including Ser Qerrin Toland, recently gone missing during a skirmish. There was no sign of Mellei, but...” He reached into his pouch and pulled out the leather-bound ledger.

He placed it on the table.

“We found this. It’s coded, but we managed to trace a few names. Dornish prisoners were moved—shipped northeast. Maybe to Tyrosh, or another island. The handwriting is clean, educated. The transfers weren’t random. They were methodical. Coordinated. Maybe even part of a network.”

Salor added, “The compound was lightly guarded. We timed the strike with Lord Lewyn’s assault to pull their strength away—it worked perfectly.”

Doran opened the ledger slowly, flipping through the brittle pages, his brow furrowed.

Jeremy spoke next. “This was just one link in the chain. Whoever’s moving these captives is doing so with support. Gold. Ships. Possibly nobles.”

Loreza finally spoke, her voice like parchment catching flame. “And they might still have her.”

No one corrected her. No one disagreed.

Doran closed the ledger gently. His gaze lifted—to the young warrior who had now led three successful infiltrations. To Mors.

He would have much preferred someone else carry this burden. But the truth was clear—Mors’s role in the future of Dorne would be immense. That path was already forming beneath his feet.

Doran knew what he had to do. He needed to help shape him now—prepare him to be the Tip of the Spear against the many threats rising against them.

Their eyes met and held—for a moment, nothing needed to be said.

Then Doran smiled, just faintly, and gave a quiet nod.Mors returned it with a small smile of his own.

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The war council convened that afternoon in Sunspear’s high chamber—stone walls draped in sun-stitched banners, the long table cleared of every map, scroll, and seal not tied to war.

Everyone was there.

Doran sat at the head, flanked by Princess Loreza and Mellario, with Elia beside them, quill in hand. Areo Hotah stood behind, a still shadow at her back. Jeremy Norridge remained near the rear doors, keeping watch while listening in. Manfrey sat stiffly on Mors’s right, arms crossed, the red still not faded from his knuckles.

Lewyn Martell arrived just past midday, still in worn battle gear, dust and dried sea spray clinging to his shoulders. Behind him came five others—Lieutenant Salor Rym, and four commanders from the Spears of the Sun:

Ser Daven Quarr, a harsh-jawed veteran from Skyreach known for his mountain-born grit.

Laera Sand, a tall woman with a scar from brow to cheek and a voice like sandpaper—deadly with a spear.

Tolen Vyr, youngest of the lieutenants but fast, clever, and relentless in battle.

Qyros of the Scour, a silent Stepstones-born killer once thought to be dead—brought back to Dorne and given purpose under Lewyn’s command.

Lewyn stepped forward, cleared his throat, and began.

“The attack was a success. We were nearly evenly matched, but as you all know—direct engagement isn’t their strength. We lost two patrol ships, one Dornish warship—though it may still be salvageable—and one of the Crown’s warships was badly damaged. Over a tenth of our force is dead or wounded.”

The room was solemn at that.

He paused. “The pirates lost far more. Up to half, by our count. Their main harbor was in flames when we pulled out. We had help, though not by design.”

Doran raised an eyebrow. “The Volantenes?”

Lewyn nodded. “Volantis-backed pirates struck just after we engaged. Then they were hit by another pirate faction. Pure chaos. We used the distraction to break their lines.”

He sighed. “But that also meant we had to deal with the second group before we could pull out.”

Mors leaned forward. “No wonder the Stepstones are so difficult to hold. What about the Volantenes?”

“They didn’t stay,” Lewyn said. “But neither did the enemy. A large force slipped away in the chaos—fell back to their final stronghold.”

“Which island?” Elia asked softly.

“Redmask,” Laera Sand replied without hesitation.

Lewyn nodded. “That’s right. Redmask.” He stood and pointed to the map, tapping a position northeast of the other islands. “Fortified. Blackstone cliffs. Narrow landing. Hundreds of men. Three towers with mounted crossbows. No easy way in.”

Mors stepped in. “Northeast of the island we infiltrated last night.” He looked around the room. “The intel we recovered pointed in that direction. We might find something.”

At that, Manfrey straightened slightly, eyes alert.

Doran noticed too—but schooled his reaction, voice calm. “That may be true. But let’s not get our hopes up until we see what’s there.”

The room settled again.

“Go on, Lewyn,” Doran said.

Lewyn inclined his head. “We pursued, but more pirates came—opportunists. We had to split the fleet. Half held them off while the rest secured the second island. We returned as soon as we could.”

He looked across the table. “Two islands cleared. One remains.”

A beat of silence followed.

Everyone in the room understood what that meant.

Doran exhaled slowly through his nose. “We can’t hold them.”

Loreza gave him a sharp look—but after a pause, nodded. “Don’t keep them in suspense, Doran. Explain.”

“If we claim these islands,” Doran said, “the Free Cities will see it as Westeros expanding into Essosi waters. And the Crown will accuse Dorne of acting above its station—of carving out its own kingdom.”

“It’s not an accusation if it’s true,” Manfrey muttered.

Mors’s jaw clenched.

He looked around the room. “So we bleed for a cause we can’t claim? Burn a pirate nest to the ground, free our people, and leave the ashes for someone else to sweep up?”

No one answered.

He stood. “Then if we can’t take the islands—we must take something. We’ve captured a few ships already. That should become a top priority. Every engagement going forward should focus on seizing vessels. Prisoners, if possible. But especially ships. Galleys. Warships. Transports. Anything with sails or hull.”

Doran tilted his head. “You want to build a navy.”

“No,” Mors said. “I want to take one.”

Jeremy smiled faintly. Salor Rym gave the slightest approving nod.

Mors continued, his voice calm but commanding. “We’re not a naval power. We never have been. But this war won’t end with fire and sand alone. We need to control the sea—or at least stop others from using it against us.”

Lewyn glanced at Doran. “He’s right.”

“Then we build the plan,” Doran said quietly.

He looked to the map, then to Lewyn and his lieutenants. “Redmask is next. But this time, we take more than prisoners. We take ships. And we leave nothing that sails behind.”

Lewyn hesitated—just for a breath. Doran noticed.

“Lewyn?” he prompted, voice low.

Lewyn looked across the room… then to Mors, standing beside him—tall, strong, steady, princely. He seemed to weigh something unspoken… and then gave a small nod.

“We’ll need Mors to lead the vanguard this time.”

The room stilled.

Loreza rose in an instant, her voice sharp and full of fire. “Absolutely not!”

She stepped forward like a lioness guarding her cub. “Lewyn, what is wrong with you?”

Elia jolted to her feet. Mellario’s face tightened with worry. Even Jeremy’s brow furrowed, a rare frown etched into his normally composed features.

Doran seemed momentarily caught off guard by the request. He didn’t speak—but he didn’t shut it down either. Instead, he watched Mors, and then Lewyn, eyes narrowing in thought as the room began to erupt into overlapping objections.

Mors said nothing—for now. He had seen Doran’s expression: focused, thoughtful. Not dismissing. Considering.

“Please,” Doran said at last, raising his hand. His voice cut through the noise. “Enough.”

The room quieted.

“This is a serious suggestion—and I understand why Lewyn is making it.” He turned to the older knight. “Everyone here knows that, for all his rough edges, Lewyn genuinely cares for us. He wouldn’t put one of us in danger unless he truly believed there was no better option. Right, Lewyn?”

Lewyn nodded. “That’s right, Doran. I would never risk any of you lightly. But Mors might be the most resilient fighter among us. And more than that…”

He looked around the chamber. “Anyone within his range fights harder, faster, longer. We’ve all seen it. We need the vanguard to break through and end this quickly. If Mors leads it, we minimize casualties. We finish this war.”

Mors stepped forward, fist to chest in a firm military salute. “Mors is ready to take this task. But I’ll only move with men I trust—my squad and the Spears. I don’t want word of my abilities spreading more than necessary.”

Doran’s expression turned grave. He glanced briefly at Loreza—who was absolutely not sulking, but clearly not pleased—then gave a slow nod.

“Then you will lead the vanguard, Mors. May the gods be with you.”

And just like that, Mors stepped into the light—not just as a prince of Dorne, or the leader of a shadow-born strike team… but as its spearpoint.

Chapter Text

Early 274 AC

Redmask BayEarly Morning – The Final Assault

The sea roared around them, stripped of its usual calm and consumed by fire, smoke, and steel.

Mors stood at the helm of a Royal Warship, wind tugging at the loose strands of silver-blond hair beneath his helm, while the red-and-gold tassels of his helmet seem to move with a mind of his own. He wore his full assault gear, crimson and gold gleaming beneath the rising sun. To his left, Oberyn knelt—checking the tension of his bowstring. Behind, Manfrey tightened the grip on his shortblade, jaw clenched, eyes fierce.

The deck swayed beneath them, not from waves—but from the shudder of distant impact. Warships clashed to the west and south, sails torn, hulls cracked, cannons and catapults loosing fury into the burning sky. This was war.

All sixty men of the vanguard team stood ready behind Mors. The infiltration unit had reassembled—Tahlor and Idrin, blades bare and hungry; Nael and Veyra, steady at the front rank; Oberyn’s and Manfrey’s men, flanking close in formation. And forty Spears of the Sun, handpicked by Lewyn himself, arrayed behind them like a living blade drawn for the strike, Salor Rym calmy at their front.

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Redmask rose from the sea like a black wound—jagged cliffs, narrow beach, and three stone towers lined with mounted crossbows. Pirate ships clogged the harbor, anchored in a defensive arc. Some had already begun firing.

“Brace!” Jeremy barked from the helm. An enemy arrow thudded into the mast.

Across the water, ballistas cranked into position. On two of the larger Dornish vessels, special mounts locked into place—heavy iron balls joined by thick chains sat on modified sleds. Crews shouted, pulled back the winches, and lit the signal flares.

“Fire!” came the call.

The first chain-ball volley cut the air like a thunderclap—spinning iron and steel hurling from the mounted ballistas. It smashed into the forward mast of a Tyroshi-built warship with a crunch of timber. The chain wrapped the mast and yanked it sideways. Sail, rigging, and deck beams went with it. The ship pitched and stalled, spinning into its neighbor.

A second volley hit another vessel broadside—tearing down its sail and collapsing its archery nest. Cries of panic rose. The ship turned into a wall of dead wood and tangled men.

“Again!” shouted the captain nearby.

Mors didn’t watch the next shot. He turned to his unit. “Boarding crews—on me!”

Their warship closed on the easternmost galley. Arrows whistled overhead. One member of the Spears took a bolt to the shoulder and dropped. Another grabbed his shield and kept climbing. Grapples flew.

“Go!” Mors roared, leaping first.

They landed hard—a crash of boots on wet planks, blades already swinging. Pirates rushed forward, but they weren’t ready for sixty elite warriors led by a prince with ‘divine strength pumping through their veins’.

Mors fought at the front. His aura radiated outward—sharpening minds, boosting reflexes, reinforcing every muscle. Spears moved faster. Shields blocked strikes they shouldn’t have seen. Oberyn vaulted the railing, landed in a roll, and swept a man’s legs with a hooked blade. Manfrey followed behind, smashing with his shield before stabbing twice, clean and brutal.

“Grapple the next ship!” Jeremy shouted. “Their sails are still intact!”

The Spears surged forward. The pirates broke—some diving into the water, others cut down where they stood.

They lashed onto the next ship fast, the grappling hooks drawing both decks tight together. It tilted slightly with the strain, but it worked—creating a wider platform, bridging the gap. The fight spread across both vessels.

This second ship was smaller, more agile—perfect for landing.

The last pirates aboard were dispatched quickly. Salor turned. “Back around!”

–––––––––––––––––

Across the bay, another chain-ball launched.It arced through the air and smashed into the cliffside—not to demolish, but to destabilize. Dust and loose stone exploded outward, rubble peppering the lower tower.Nearby, a Dornish warship closed in—its deck lined with archers taking aim.

The pirate harbor was coming apart. Ships burned. Crews fled. Screams echoed off the water.

“Mors!” Salor Rym’s voice rang out. “Shore team’s landing now! We clear the gate!”“Push through!” Mors shouted.

With the captured ship now theirs, they turned its prow toward the beach. Archers fired in volleys from their deck as chain-balls smashed more masts and hulls behind them—cutting off any pursuit. Fires raged across the harbor. The chaos behind them sealed their path.

And Redmask’s beach… was next.

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Redmask ShoreMoments Later

The beach was narrow—a black strip of stone and packed sand hemmed in by cliffs—and every inch of it was in range of the towers above.

But the Spears didn’t wait.

Three longboats hit the shore in unison, keels grinding hard as boots splashed into shallow surf. Spears of the Sun disembarked in waves, shields up, eyes forward. Mors was at the front, dripping seawater, shortblade in hand, Solaris strapped tight across his back.

“Form up!” Salor Rym shouted. “Tower fire in ten—move!”

Bolts rained down from the cliffs. Heavy crossbows mounted on the towers punched through sand and stone with terrifying force. One man lost a leg. Another dropped without a sound.

Mors didn’t flinch. He pointed forward and surged into a sprint, aura pulsing wide.

“Go now!”

His projected aura wrapped the first twenty soldiers behind him, sharpening their instincts, dulling the fear rising in their throats. They moved faster. Hit harder. Thought clearer.

Manfrey smashed through the first wooden barrier at the base of the cliff. Oberyn hurled a spear upward, hitting a watchman mid-turn. He didn’t scream—just fell.

The second wave hit the beach—Jeremy, Salor, and twenty more Spears. Arrows sliced the air overhead. Shields locked. Spears punched back. A fire arrow hit a cart near the rocks—it exploded in a burst of oil and flame, throwing sand into the air.

“Climb line—north wall!” Salor bellowed.

Two squads broke left, racing toward the rope ladders already fired by ballista bolts into the cliffside hours earlier. The ropes had held. Barely.

Mors turned to his team. “With me. We break their gate.”

He didn’t wait. Charging through the lower path, he slammed shoulder-first into a reinforced door built into the cliff’s base. It cracked. Two Spears ran forward with a makeshift ram—a stripped mast turned battering pole—and smashed it again. A third hit splintered the wood.

Then it gave.

Pirates waited behind it—screaming, weapons raised: axes, swords, and spears ready to strike.

Then came the flash.

One of the Spears hurled a fire flask—an experimental incendiary: flammable oil sealed in a glass bottle, with a cloth fuse lit at the mouth. They hadn’t brought many—just two or three. But this was why.

It shattered on the stone, and fire bloomed in an instant.

Screams echoed. Flames clung to skin. Smoke filled the air. The front line of pirates broke into panic as men burned where they stood.

Mors didn’t hesitate.

He crashed into them like a hammer through glass—blade rising, elbow smashing, boot driving into chests. He reversed his spear and slammed the butt into a jaw, then flowed into another strike without pause. Every movement powered by aura and instinct, battle-drilled to perfection.

The Spears surged after him.

Manfrey slammed one man into the wall, ran him through, and kept moving. Oberyn kicked a screaming pirate back down the slope, then ducked and drove his curved blade under another’s ribs.

Inside the tunnel—it was chaos.

A bloody, one-sided rout.

“Keep going! Now!” Mors roared.

The third wave of Spears surged through the breached passage—fewer than when they began. Redmask’s lower defenses had fallen.Above them, the towers still loomed.They were next.

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Redmask Pirate Fort — Inner Tower BreachJust after the main gate is overrun

Smoke curled through the narrow corridors of the cliffside keep. Blood streaked the walls, stone cracked from impacts, bodies twisted in the narrow halls. But the Spears pressed on.

They had one target now: the central tower—the command point of Redmask.

“Push!” Mors shouted, voice raw. “Form up, we breach now!”

They reached the interior stairwell—spiraling, tight, steep. Manfrey took point, clearing the first two levels with brutal efficiency. Tahlor and Idrin moved like shadows. Nael and Veyra held the rear. Every footstep thudded with purpose.

From the top, the clang of metal and the thrum of crossbows rang out.

They were waiting.

Mors didn’t care.

He turned to Salor and Jeremy. “You with me?”The old lieutenant grinned, blood trickling from his lip. “To the end.”Jeremy nodded. “Right behind you.”Nael and Veyra exchanged a look, sighed, and followed without a word.They burst through the final door—into chaos.

The top of the tower was a circular platform, open to the wind and sky, flanked by two mounted ballistas and a dozen armored defenders. Arrows hissed across the space. Spears clashed. Two men fell instantly.

Mors charged straight for the left ballista team. His aura flared, a tight wave of force—every man near him felt the surge. Their limbs moved faster. Their minds sharpened.

Steel rang.

Oberyn vaulted over the battlements, taking a pirate down mid-spin. Manfrey engaged a twin-axe brute near the second ballista. Qyros flanked from the far side.

Mors reached the base of the left ballista, blade raised—

—and the floor gave way.

A trapdoor collapsed beneath his boots. He dropped three feet, catching himself mid-fall—but the movement threw off his timing.

He looked up just in time to see it.

The ballista turned. Point-blank. Aimed at his chest.

Too close. No time to dodge.

But something hit him first.

Salor.

The lieutenant slammed into him from the side—a blur of armor and instinct—and shoved Mors just out of the line.

CRACK!

The bolt slammed through Salor’s chest, lifting him off the ground and impaling him against the inner wall. The force split wood and stone. Blood sprayed.

Mors hit the floor hard, skidding across stone.The edge of the bolt sliced through his armor, grazing his ribs—deep enough to draw blood, not deep enough to kill. On anyone else, it would’ve shattered bone.

The world slowed.A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. For a breath, everything felt unreal—tilted, distant.

Nael and Veyra closed ranks around him, blades drawn, eyes scanning.Jeremy was already moving, shoving past wreckage and bodies to reach him.

Mors scrambled upright, breath ragged, eyes wide.

“Salor—”

The old knight was pinned like a banner, still breathing—but barely.

Mors rushed to him, already reaching with his aura, trying to feed the energy into his body, to heal, to boost, to stabilize—

Salor’s hand clutched Mors’s forearm.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

Blood dripped from his lips. His voice was weak—but steady.

“I know… what you’re trying… to do. Don’t. I’m… too far gone.”

Mors’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “No. You don’t know that.”

Salor shook his head. “Save your strength… for them. For the others. Keep them going…”

His hand slipped slightly, losing grip.

“I did… my job…”

A faint smile. A final breath.

“Proud of y—”

His head dropped. Still. Silent. Gone.

Mors stood there, blood on his hands, breath shaking.

Then he closed Salor’s eyes, stood straight, and turned back toward the battle—expression hard, focused, unreadable.

He picked up Solaris, the spear Jeremy had given him. Despite the blood, it gleamed in his hand—freshly polished, made for moments like this.

“Clear the rest!” he bellowed, voice like iron. “Take this tower. For Dorne.”

And then he lunged—fire in his eyes, Solaris in hand.This was the last battle. The pirates—and every enemy of Dorne—would learn the truth: That Dorne stands. Dorne fights. Dorne endures.Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.

Chapter Text

Redmask Fortress — Three Hours LaterThe Wind Howled Across the Blackstone Cliffs

The battle was over.

Redmask had fallen.

Smoke trailed from scorched towers. The eastern bastion still burned, a faint orange smolder casting shadows over the corpses strewn across the main courtyard. The dead lay in heaps—pirates, Dornish, Crown men alike.

Mors stood on a rampart, looking down from the central tower, blood still drying on his armor. They had done it—but it had come at a cost.

Below, Nael sat slumped against the wreckage of a shattered ballista. His left arm was gone below the elbow—cleanly wrapped, but soaked through. Jeremy crouched beside him, jaw clenched, saying nothing. The healer had done all he could.Nael’s fighting days were over.

Beside him, a body lay beneath a cloak. Veyra. Dead. The two guards who had watched over Mors for more than a decade—one crippled, the other gone.Because Mors had wanted the vanguard. Had insisted on leading from the front.

Tahlor and Idrin were bloodied but upright. Manfrey limped, supported by a somber Oberyn—his thigh gashed deep, still bleeding through the wrap. Tahlor’s shoulderplate was split and dented, but he’d live. They all would.

Two Spears from Laera’s detachment hadn’t made it.

Qyros hadn’t said a word since the breach. Just stood vigil over Salor’s body, refusing to leave. A decade ago, Salor had spared him—and given him purpose.

Mors could feel the strain—his aura had been burning for hours, holding wounds together, easing pain, pushing back death. He was beyond tired.

Across the courtyard, a company of Spears dragged a pirate captain from a storage vault—bloodied, bound, barely conscious.

Lewyn approached from the lower levels, boots heavy with dust and blood. His brow was creased, his armor scratched and dented. Behind him, three lieutenants moved with purpose—sweeping the keep, floor by floor.

“Uncle…” Mors asked without turning. “Final tally?”Lewyn exhaled slowly. “Fourteen Spears dead. Seven Crown men. Two dozen more too wounded to fight again this campaign.”

Mors gave a single nod, his jaw tight, eyes forward.

Lewyn continued, voice low.“The keep is ours. They’re still combing the lower catacombs. Found a cache of food, supplies, and artifacts—everything neatly packed, like they were preparing to move. There’s a barred chamber too. Might be captives inside. They’re working to get it open now.”

Several heads turned at that. Even the wounded seemed to stir.“Let me know when they do,” Mors said, tiredly but firmly.

Lewyn’s eyes drifted to Salor’s body—now wrapped in a red-and-gold cloak, laid with care. His expression was hard to read.“He died like he lived. Straight. Unflinching. Loyal to the end. He was a good friend.”

Mors didn’t answer right away.When he did, his voice was low but steady.“I was reckless…he saved me. Without hesitation.”

Lewyn stepped closer, resting a hand on Mors’s shoulder.“And because he did, the vanguard held. The fortress fell. Dorne has one less monster’s nest to worry about.”

Mors finally turned to face him, unreadable.“And fewer men to protect it.”

A gust of sea wind swept through the shattered tower.It rustled the banner that had been hung above the ramparts—the spear and sun of Dorne—now flying over black stone.

It fluttered above the ruins of Redmask.

Victory was theirs.

But it was paid in blood.

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Redmask Fortress — Lower Keep, Interrogation Hall

The torches lining the hall flickered as Lewyn, Mors, Oberyn, and Jeremy made their way toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. The air was damp with salt and sweat, and the scent of blood lingered in the stones. Manfrey remained behind, his thigh injury being tended by the maesters.

They were halfway down when the sound stopped them cold.

A rasping, guttural laugh echoed from the other side—pained and wet, half-choked by whatever wounds the pirate had already received. Still, it pushed through, feral and mocking.

“Hah… ha-ha… aye… I remember her…” the pirate captain wheezed between coughs and spitting blood. “Didn’t have a good time, no she didn’t… our special treatment broke ‘er in two. Couldn’t even finish patchin’ up my whole crew ‘fore she crumbled dead… like the noble bitch she was…”

A violent, strained cough, then more laughter.

“Might be a piece o’ her still floatin’ round the reef. Or in some shark’s belly, hahahah—!”

CRACK.

A muffled impact followed by a grunt of pain cut the laughter short.

Inside, the “interrogation” resumed.

Mors stopped in place, breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, the blood draining from his face. That couldn’t be real. That couldn’t be her.

Behind him, Oberyn froze mid-step. For a heartbeat, nothing—then his entire body tensed like a bowstring, trembling with rage.

“No,” he breathed.

And then he ran.

“Oberyn—!” Lewyn called out, but it was too late. The younger prince stormed down the hall, boots slamming against the stone, murder in every step.

Lewyn exhaled slowly, his broad shoulders heavy with sorrow. He closed his eyes for a long second before following at a walk, each step solemn.

Jeremy stood still, jaw clenched, his face unreadable. Only his eyes betrayed the weight of the words they’d just heard—eyes that had seen war, loss, betrayal. He turned to Mors.

“Come along, my prince,” Jeremy murmured, the words thick with regret. “We need to verify this… whether we want to or not.”

Mors didn’t respond. He stared at the door ahead, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. That voice. That laugh. The image it conjured burned into his mind like a brand.

‘If that bastard is lying, I’ll tear the truth from what’s left of him. And if he’s not…’

Another scream rang out behind the door. This time, it wasn’t the pirate’s.

It was Oberyn.

Not in pain.

In fury.

–––––––––––––––––

Sunspear — One Day Later

The gates of Sunspear opened to roaring cheers.

Sunlight poured over the sandstone walls, casting golden halos on the returning column. Banners flapped in the breeze—red and gold, the sun and spear raised high. Spears of the Sun rode tall, bloodied but proud. Crown men marched behind, exhausted yet smiling. The war was over.

Victory was theirs.

And the city welcomed them with open arms.

Children ran along the edges of the procession. Merchants tossed coins and citrus into the streets. Dancers moved barefoot atop warm flagstones, and pipers played the old Dornish hymns of triumph and vengeance.

But not all celebrated.

At the head of the column, Mors rode in silence, offering the occasional nod to those who called his name—but nothing more.

Oberyn rode beside him, face set like carved stone. His usual fire was muted—coiled, unreadable. Still, he managed a few half-hearted waves, more out of habit than spirit.

Lewyn’s helm hung from his saddlehorn, eyes forward, features drawn.

Jeremy rode just behind them, his armor polished but his expression dark.

Manfrey followed in a covered cart, his thigh bound tight, body upright but soul withdrawn. He did not wave. He did not speak. The boy who had laughed with Oberyn beneath the Water Gardens was gone.

Tahlor and Idrin flanked them on foot, weapons at their sides, scanning the crowd with silent vigilance.

The rest of the Martell guard moved in formation behind them, shields polished, spears raised in triumph.

The Princes of Dorne did not interrupt the celebration.

But they did not join it either.

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Sunspear — Throne Hall

The Court of Sunspear stood in full regalia.

Prince Doran, the acting regent, sat upon the raised throne, formal and still, the weight of rulership heavy on his shoulders.

To his right stood Princess Loreza—her face lined with age and worry, her eyes tired yet proud, fixed intently on her son.

To his left, Mellario of Norvos watched with quiet focus.

The trumpets sounded.

The hall doors opened.

Lewyn stepped in first, head held high. Mors and Oberyn walked beside him, their steps measured and steady.

Jeremy and a limping Manfrey followed close behind, their pace slower, the air around them solemn.

Tahlor and Idrin held their post at the entrance, as did the rest of the Martell guard—silent sentinels against the stone.

The court fell into respectful silence.

"Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne—Commander and Admiral of the Dornish forces, Captain of the Spears of the Sun," the herald declared, voice ringing through the hall."Prince Oberyn Martell. Prince Mors Martell. Prince Manfrey Martell. Ser Jeremy Norridge... and the leaders of the Southern Stepstones campaign."

They knelt in unison.

Prince Doran rose.

“Rise, warriors of Dorne.”

They stood as one.

Doran’s voice was calm, but it carried clearly through the chamber. He gave a single nod to Lewyn.

Lewyn stepped forward, lifting his chin. His voice rang with solemn strength:

“We return victorious from our campaign. Victory... and Vengeance are Ours!”

Cheers erupted through the court. A few Dornish lords pressed their hands to their chests in salute. The sound rolled through the hall like a crashing wave.

Once the clamor settled, Doran continued.

“You fought with honor. You led with courage. You delivered us not just vengeance, but finality. Redmask is broken. The pirate scourge is routed. The blood price is paid.”

A second wave of cheers rolled through the hall—louder this time, swelling with pride.

A few of the warriors returned faint, strained smiles—more duty than celebration behind their eyes.

Even Doran saw it.But he said nothing—for now.

His gaze settled on one figure.

“Mors. Step forward.”

Mors hesitated for only a heartbeat before moving ahead. The room fell quiet again.

“At only fourteen,” Doran said, “he has done what many twice—or thrice—his age could not.His bravery, his strategic mind, his tactical clarity, and his martial prowess are an inspiration for all Dorne to emulate.”

He looked Mors in the eye.

“Mors. Kneel.”

Mors’s eyes widened slightly. But he dropped to one knee without a word.

Doran drew his sword.

And with the ancient words of the Faith echoing in the chamber, he spoke:

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong and honorable.In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom and guidance.In the name of the Seven, I charge you to uphold these vows—now and always.”

He touched the blade to Mors’s shoulders, then returned it to its sheath.

“Now rise, Ser Mors Martell—Prince of Dorne.”

The hall erupted.

Cheers thundered from every corner of the chamber.Even Oberyn, Jeremy, Lewyn, and Manfrey offered rare, genuine smiles.

Doran stepped closer and placed a hand on Mors’s shoulder. His voice dropped low—just for him.

“You did what I and many could not,” he murmured. “And I grieve what it cost you. Don’t let guilt erode who you are.”

Mors bowed his head.

“I accept no glory for it.”

“You earned it all the same,” Doran replied.

Then, turning back to the court, his voice lifted once more.

“Today, we honor not only victory—but sacrifice. Let no one forget the names of the dead—or the price paid to deliver this day.”

A solemn chant rose from the crowd.A roll call of the fallen:

Veyra. Salor. Nael.Spears. Guards. Sons of Dorne.

The dead were remembered.

The living stood unchanged.

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Later — Princess Loreza’s Solar

The doors closed behind them.

No guards. No lords. No banners.Just family—and the few who had truly been there.

The walls were thick with silence.

Doran stood near the center, brow furrowed in quiet thought.Mellario sat by the window with Elia, her fingers laced tightly in her lap.Loreza poured wine for both of them but barely touched her own.Mors lingered near the hearth, still in partial armor, the firelight glinting off dented steel.Oberyn leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes distant.Manfrey sat apart, staring into nothing.

Jeremy remained standing—rigid, composed.So did Lewyn, his expression unreadable.

Areo Hotah stood guard by the door, silent as stone.

They were all thinking of the same person.But no one dared speak her name.

“It’s done,” Doran finally said. “But we’ve learned nothing of who backed them. At the very least we can close this chapter.”

“For now,” Lewyn added. “They were preparing to move—too much coin, too many supplies. Someone warned them. Or supplied them.”

“No sigils,” Jeremy said. “No letters that survived. And the captain… died before we could pull more.”

Oberyn’s jaw tightened.

Mors kept his gaze on the floor.

“He said enough.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Manfrey spoke—his voice low and flat.

“We should’ve burned them all.”

No one answered.He didn’t flinch beneath their silence.

Elia looked over, concern flickering behind her eyes.

Mellario exhaled softly, her voice low and edged with her Norvoshi accent.

“You all returned alive. That is no small thing… but I see only shadows, where peace ought to be.”

Loreza turned at last, her gaze sweeping across her sons, her brother, her nephew.

“You did what needed to be done,” she said. “And now the realm knows—Dorne is not to be trifled with. But I won’t ask you to celebrate it.”

She paused.

“I ask only this: rest. Physically. Mentally. Let this settle.”

Doran nodded.

“There will be more to come. The next moves will not be made with swords, but with whispers and intrigue.”

“And coin,” Mors murmured. “And alliances.”

Doran looked to Mors.

“But not today.”

Mors solemnly nodded.He glanced to Manfrey, then to Oberyn, then to Jeremy.

Each carried the same weight.

The war was won.But the bitterness of it would linger... a permanent shadow, always reminding us of what was lost.

Chapter Text

Early 275 AC – The Red Mountains – Eastern Slopes, The Torrentine

The wind hissed along the ridge, pulling at Mors’s hair as he crouched behind a sandstone shelf. In the clearing below, the raiders moved nervously—unaware they were already surrounded.

Then the pirates arrived.

Three of them, mounted and armed, cloaked in salt-stained leathers and bearing differently colored hair in Myrish style. This wasn’t a chance encounter. Its implications were troubling.

Mors’s jaw tightened.

‘Them again. They’re a plague that never goes away.’

With a flick of his hand, he gave the signal.

Arrows rained down from both sides of the ridge, precise and sudden. Two of the pirates fell immediately. Raiders scrambled for cover, some returning fire, others fleeing into the brush.

Mors didn’t wait for the dust to settle quickly mounting Vezar, his trusty Sand Steed of the past year.

He turned to his right, where six of his personal guard waited on horseback, spears in hand.

“Break left. Cut off the escape,” he ordered. “Don’t let them reach the gulch.”

They mounted as one.

Jeremy was already in motion. “Let’s finish it.”

They surged forward over the ridge—seven riders, spears low, hooves churning dirt into thunder. The raiders barely had time to scream.

Mors’s spear punched through the chest of the first man he reached. He wrenched it free as Vezar carried him past, then twisted his body to catch the next rider with the haft, breaking the man’s jaw. Around him, the other guards struck with brutal precision—Idrin opened a throat with a downward thrust; Tahlor unseated a raider with a shield slam that cracked bone.

But some were still fleeing.

“Take the slope!” Mors shouted, kicking his heels into his steed.

They crested a low rise and spotted three raiders making for the broken pass—one with a hostage tied behind him.

Mors leaned forward, urging more speed.

They twisted into scrubland—sharp turns, loose stone, low-hanging branches lashing their faces. One of the pursuers fell back after his horse lost footing on loose gravel. Mors didn’t slow.

The raider with the hostage glanced back—and made a fatal mistake. His horse faltered slightly, enough for Mors to close the gap. With a burst of speed, Mors came up alongside and drove his spear up and into the man’s back. The raider arched once, then crumpled from the saddle.

The girl—barely ten—screamed, falling with him.

Mors jumped from his saddle before Vezar had even stopped, catching her as she tumbled. She was bruised, dazed, but alive.

He set her gently on the ground, brushing a branch from her hair. “You’re safe now,” he said, softer than before.

–––––––––––––––––

By midday, it was over.

Thirty-four raiders and pirates lay dead. Two were captured. The merchant was shaken but alive, and the girl was recovering under one of the guard’s cloaks. Another hostage—a sellsword from the Reach—had survived with a broken leg but a sharp tongue.

“You Dornish sure know how to time an ambush,” he muttered through grit teeth.

Idrin, the youngest of Mors’s personal guard, couldn’t help but quip back, ”You sound disappointed. Were you hoping to spend more quality time with the raiders?”

The sellsword grumbled incoherently. He seemed half-drunk or concussed. He was subsequently ignored by all after ensuring his injuries were non-life-threatening.

Ser Daven Quarr, one of Mors’s lieutenants, was kneeling beside the captured pirate leader. Blood trickled down the pirate’s temple.

“He says the Stepstones are finished,” the lieutenant reported. “Tyrosh pulled support after our campaign. The survivors have scattered.”

“Then why are they still here?” Mors asked, voice flat.

The pirate gave a broken smile. “No, not they. Only we remain now. The rogues of Myr... ah, we still carry the grudge, yes?”

“A plague we will be... the sickness—" he coughed, blood flecking his lips "The sickness we will give!”

Then, with a guttural snarl, he bit off his own tongue.

Everyone froze, horrified. The lieutenant rushed forward, trying to stabilize him and extract more answers, but there was no hope.

"What grudge?" Jeremy asked, stepping forward. "Was he talking about the war? They started it."

"This is worse than I thought," Mors said lightly, then fell silent in thought.

After a beat, he added, "More is at play here. A regular pirate would not have killed himself so readily."

Jeremy's expression shifted—a grim clarity dawning.

Daven, soaked in the pirate's blood from the failed attempt, standing beside him, gave a solemn nod. "It seems this is not over.”

Mors knelt beside the corpse, searching for identifying items—marks, tokens, papers, anything. He rose slowly, eyes narrowed.

He turned and began to walk away. "Strip him. Look for anything important..."

He paused.

"...and feed him to the cliffs."

–––––––––––––––––

They escorted the rescued captives to a town along the Torrentine, near Blackmont—riding slow, careful through the passes. Mors gave his cloak to the girl, who still hadn’t spoken. The merchant offered coin; Mors refused it. The sellsword limped beside Jeremy’s horse, ranting about poor pay and worse luck.

They rested only long enough to secure the wounded and deliver a full report to the town’s watch.

Then they turned South.

Toward Starfall.

Lord Dayne needed to hear what had been uncovered. Pirates, possibly backed by Myr, were meddling in dangerous matters and perhaps allying with raiders. What that meant exactly was unclear... but one thing was certain: the hoped-for relief from pirate threats was still far off.

As they rode beneath a sky turning lavender with dusk, Mors said nothing.

But the wind that followed them through the passes felt colder than before.

–––––––––––––––––

It had been a year since the smoke cleared from the blackstone cliffs of Redmask.

The scars had faded from skin—but not from memory.

Mors rode at the head of thirty riders as they descended the winding Torrentine trail, the mountain wind tugging at cloaks and crests. His face was calm, but every glance over the ridges sparked memory: of screams, of ash, of a burning fortress beneath a blood-red sky. His body had healed; the nightmares took longer.

The campaign against the pirates had been brutal, but decisive. The Tyroshi-backed factions, scattered and hunted, had fled east after the fall of Redmask. Myr had all but abandoned its ambitions in Westeros—at least for now. But war left behind more than bodies. It left fractures.

Reports had begun to trickle in—raiders in the Eastern Red Mountains, whispers of sellswords with strange accents, and villages too afraid to speak. It smelled like unrest. Like foreign fingers once again testing Dornish borders.

Lewyn had dispatched Mors to investigate with a handpicked force—twenty Spears of the Sun, led by Ser Daven Quarr as his advisor, and accompanied by the ten members of Mors’s personal guard. Though many were still green, they were improving rapidly under the guidance of Lewyn, Jeremy, and Doran. Mors wasn’t just being tested—he was being groomed as Lewyn’s successor… or perhaps something more.

Meanwhile, Lewyn, Oberyn, and Manfrey had ridden north to the Stoneway, once again called to mediate tensions between Houses Yronwood and Fowler. Swords had nearly been drawn before. This time, they hoped to avoid it.

Oberyn had returned to form, more or less. The fire in him still burned, but it was steadier now—less grief, more focus. He laughed again, trained with his old flair, and resumed tormenting Manfrey with equal parts wit and wine.

Manfrey, though, had changed. He smiled rarely, and laughed even less. Since Redmask, something in him had pulled inward—quieter now, more prone to brooding. Mors had seen it himself: Manfrey sitting for hours, unmoving, staring at nothing, as if part of him had never left that blood-soaked beach. Oberyn tried, but even he could only pull their cousin back in fleeting moments.

Back in Sunspear, Princess Loreza had resumed her rule. The worst of her collapse had passed, but she was no longer the woman she had been. Her voice still commanded respect, and her decisions continued to shape Dorne—but her eyes told the truth: ringed with shadow, glassy with pain, like a proud blade dulled by too many wounds. Doran, now her Hand, bore more of the burden than ever. Together, they kept the realm steady. But to those closest to her, the signs were unmistakable—she was fraying at the seams.

Yet Dorne endures, as it always has—unyielding beneath sun and sand.

–––––––––––––––––

Starfall — Arrival at Dusk

The gates opened without delay as Mors’s party rode in. Guards in pale armor stood at attention. Waiting in the courtyard was Lord Beric Dayne—tall and barrel-shouldered despite his age. Beside him stood his heir, Ulrick, now fully grown and sharp-eyed, the calm steel of command settling into his frame. A steward held a silver tray bearing salt and bread—a welcome, and a sacred pledge of guest right.

Mors dismounted and accepted the offering with a nod, his men following suit behind him.

Lord Beric stepped forward. “My prince, we received your raven from Blackmont. It said you were coming with haste—and with urgent news.”

Mors gave a curt nod. “It is urgent. As Lord of the Torrentine, you need to hear it first.”

“Then come,” Beric said. “We’ll speak in my solar.”

Mors turned. “Jeremy, Daven—you're with me. The rest, get some downtime. We'll be here at least until tomorrow.”

Inside, the great hall had changed little. The violet and silver tapestries still hung proudly. The long table gleamed beneath hanging lanterns. They passed through it in silence, climbed a narrow stairwell, and made their way to the lord’s solar.

Once inside and seated, Mors gave his report.

Lord Beric listened in silence, his brow furrowed. When Mors finished, the old lord remained still for a long moment before speaking.

“Most disturbing news, my prince,” he said at last, rising to pour them each a cup of wine. “It seems we have more hidden enemies moving in the shadows than we thought. Preparations must be made.”

Mors accepted the wine with a nod. “We managed to stop the latest unrest—but I’m not sure how long the calm will last.”

“You’ve done well, Prince Mors,” Beric said. “This may be troubling news, but it’s also a gift. Starfall can now prepare. We will be ready.”

Ulrick smirked. “Now that the heavy news is done, Father, I think Prince Mors could use something lighter.”

Mors glanced between them, curious.

Lord Beric exhaled and gave a small nod. “Arthur has taken the white cloak.”

Mors straightened. “He’s joined the Kingsguard?”

“He has,” Ulrick confirmed. “Sworn in at eighteen. Prince Rhaegar requested him personally after they met.”

“Rhaegar?” Mors echoed. “He… made a wise choice.”

“That he did,” Lord Beric said, pride unmistakable in his voice. “Arthur will serve him well. Even at sixteen, the prince learns like a maester and fights like a knight twice his age. The king keeps him close, and Arthur serves him directly.”

“Arthur became Sword of the Morning at sixteen,” Ulrick added. “Now a Kingsguard, just two years later. It’s a rare path.”

Mors nodded slowly, a smile touching his lips. “A great honor—for Arthur, and for House Dayne.”

Lord Beric’s face turned thoughtful. “Ashara would agree… though she has not taken it lightly. She and Arthur were always close. He trained her, you know. She’s become quite skilled with a blade. Small swords are her preference, though she’s no stranger to longswords.”

“She’s been spending more time with our little sister, Allyria,” Ulrick added with a smirk. “Trying to train her, though it looks more like a corruption campaign.”

Lord Beric gave a rare chuckle.“You’ll find them in the yard, no doubt.”

Mors let out an awkward laugh. “Yes… I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

Beric and Ulrick exchanged knowing smiles—just shy of smirking, the kind of look that held more amusement than sympathy. There was no hiding the schadenfreude.

–––––––––––––––––

The Starfall Yard

The training yard hadn’t changed. The dummies stood skewered. The sand was disturbed with the tracks of hours of practice. And sure enough, Ashara Dayne was there—fifteen now, tall and striking, sleeves rolled up, her violet sash whipping in the breeze.

At her side was a miniature version of herself: Allyria Dayne, five years old and filled with fury, swinging a wooden stick at a hay dummy with absolute conviction.

Ashara noticed him first. She paused mid-motion, turned, and raised her hand with a theatrical gasp.

“Oh gods,” she exclaimed, shielding her eyes. “What is this blinding light? Could it be? No… it must be—the Sun of Dorne himself! The youngest knight in Westeros, come to grace my humble little eyes?”

Mors sighed, grinning despite himself.

Ashara continued, voice dripping with mock reverence. “What is such a princely presence doing here—before a lowly lady of Dorne? A lady who, may I remind you, has not received even a single raven in months? Not one word. Not even a rude sketch.”

He straightened and approached her with deliberately exaggerated solemnity..

“My lady Ashara,” he said with a grand bow. “It has been too long. I have missed my sparring partner dearly. No other opponent loses with such grace and poise. A rare talent.”

Ashara reeled back, affronted. “Lose? I’ll have you know I’ve improved tremendously. Arthur himself said so.”

“Did he now?”

“He did. And if I ever slay a pirate lord or win a tournament, I might even become a knight. Humph.”

“And yet,” Mors teased, “we prevent exactly that—to spare the realm from a great calamity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just worried I’d steal your spotlight. They’d probably call me the Lady of the Dawn. No—wait—the Moon of Dorne! Yes. Perfect. Obviously.”

Mors nodded with fond affection. “Obviously.”

They looked at each other—then burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Allyria tugged on Ashara’s sleeve. “You promised I could do the spinning strike next.”

Ashara smiled down at her. “Later, little blade.”

Then she looked at Mors and grinned. “Well, don’t just stand there. Show me if the Sun of Dorne still remembers how to move his feet.”

“I’m afraid I’ve retired from embarrassing Daynes in public.”

“Coward.”

Of what, she didn’t say.

They sparred soon after. No swords—just words. Their banter was a dance, familiar and warm. Ashara threw her jabs like blades; Mors parried with dry wit. And beneath it all, something more delicate lingered in the air—unspoken, but undeniable.

Ashara never said what she felt. But her eyes lingered. Her smirks softened. And when she looked at him, it wasn’t just to make him squirm.

And Mors, though he played the part of the unbothered knight, found himself hoping she wouldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

The Hellholt — Nine Days Later

Nine days after leaving Starfall, Mors and his party approached the ochre walls of the Hellholt. The desert heat shimmered along the trail as the fortress rose before them, carved into the stone like something half-remembered from a fever dream. Mors rode at the head, his eyes scanning the ramparts, the inner gate, the waiting figures.

As expected, Lord Harmon Uller and Ser Mellard Uller—older and younger brothers of the late Mellei—stood waiting with their families. Among them was eight-year-old Ellaria Sand, curious-eyed and sun-kissed, as well as Mellard’s two children: twenty-year-old Alyssa, who had favored martial pursuits from a young age and trained as a fighter, and Ser Bedwyck, just eighteen, already considered the finest swordsman in the Hellholt at his age.

They were dressed in light, flowing garb suited to the oppressive heat. A steward stepped forward with a silver tray bearing bread and salt—guest right, as tradition demanded.

Mors dismounted and accepted the offering with solemn respect. His men followed suit in silence.

But something felt… off.

The Lord Harmon, normally brash and warm, wore a strained expression. His greeting was polite, but clipped. His eyes drifted too often to the floor. As the ceremonial offerings were exchanged, Mors felt it again—a weight in the air, the kind that lingered before a storm.

Once formalities were complete, the truth came quickly.

“A raven arrived from Yronwood,” Lord Harmon began, voice low, as they stepped inside a shaded receiving hall. “It was sent to every major lord in Dorne.”

Mors tensed. “What did it say?”

The old lord grimaced. “It accused Prince Oberyn of dishonorable conduct… and far worse. They claim he assaulted Lord Edgar Yronwood’s daughter, and afterward challenged Edgar to a duel—one he won by poison.”

Mors blinked. “Poison?”

Lord Uller nodded gravely. “The Yronwoods claim it was a coward’s trick—that your brother fought dishonorably, even criminally. Lord Edgar is dead. His heir, Lord Ormond, has called for justice—and House Wyl stands with them. Karyl Wyl, their heir, is wed to Sarella Yronwood. They even have a child, after all.”

The room was still.

“They’re out for blood,” Lord Harmon continued. “This won’t blow over easily. Prince Lewyn tried to calm things, but he’s no diplomat. He left with the rest of the Spears for Sunspear two days ago.”

Mors remained silent for a long moment. Then he thought,

‘This makes no sense. Oberyn can be reckless, yes—but even he knows how delicate things are with House Yronwood. Far too delicate for something this reckless. And ravens sent to all the major houses? That’s not a plea for mediation… that’s a first strike.’

He sighed through his nose, then stood. “I appreciate the welcome, my lord. But I’ll have to cut the visit short. My men will rest and resupply, but we ride for Sunspear tonight.”

Lord Harmon looked disappointed but nodded with understanding. “Pity. I’d hoped to speak more—about Mellei. She always believed you’d grow into something great. I see now she was right.”

A pause passed between them. Not sorrow—something quieter. The shared remembrance of someone dear, now gone.

Then Mors clasped the lord’s forearm. “Thank you. Truly.”

–––––––––––––––––

That evening, just as they were preparing to depart, three horses approached at a swift pace.

Once close enough, Mors recognized Ser Mellard Uller, flanked by his daughter Alyssa and son Bedwyck.

He reined in and nodded to them. “Here to see us off?”

Mellard inclined his head. “I am. But Alyssa and Bedwyck wish to ride with you—to Sunspear.”

Mors blinked, surprised—and then smiled, genuinely pleased. “That’s good news. Are you both sure? The road ahead won’t be easy.”

Alyssa gave a crisp military salute. “I follow my prince.”

Bedwyck, more relaxed but no less resolute, added, “You might need my sword and spear in the days ahead. House Uller stands with House Martell.”

Mors met their words with gratitude, giving each a respectful nod. “Then welcome.”

He turned to the rest of his riders. “Move out.”

They rode beneath the rising stars, the faint cool of night beginning to settle over the sands.

The final stretch to Sunspear would normally take four or five days. Mors intended to make it in three.

The wind at their backs carried heat… and the faint scent of unrest.

But riding with the Ullers—family of the woman who had once meant so much—reminded them all that, despite growing shadows, the Martells were not alone. And many in Dorne still believed in them—fervently.

–––––––––––––––––

Sunspear — Three days later

Mors and his party reached Sunspear in just under three days, pushing both themselves and their sand steeds to the limit. Dust clung to their cloaks and sweat beaded on their brows, but they wasted no time at the gate.

As the guards opened the way, Mors issued swift orders.

“Ser Daven, see to the Spears. Rest, resupply, rotate watches—we may have more movement soon.”

Daven saluted and peeled off with the unit. The rest of Mors’s personal guard dispersed—most off to handle personal matters or collapse into sleep. Two accompanied Alyssa and Bedwyck to help them find accommodations, guided by a maid.

Only Tahlor and Idrin remained. They had become something of a constant at Mors’s side, and now followed him and Jeremy as they made their way into the inner keep.

Inside, the air was cooler but no less tense. After speaking with a maid, Mors learned that Lewyn’s group had arrived just two hours earlier. They were meeting in Princess Loreza’s private solar—with Oberyn present.

That was all he needed to hear.

He made for the solar at once.

At the door stood Areo Hotah—a towering sentinel, silent and ever watchful. He and Mors exchanged a single, knowing nod.

Mors turned to his guards. “Tahlor, Idrin—wait here with Areo.”

They nodded wordlessly and took position as Mors stepped inside.

The tension in the room was immediate. Conversations halted. All eyes turned toward him, ready to rebuke an intrusion—until they recognized him.

Doran’s expression softened. Lewyn gave a small nod. Even Oberyn, still flushed from the road, managed a strained grin. Loreza, seated at the head of the room, offered Mors a soft smile.

Mors raised a hand in apology. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Jeremy stepped in behind him and, reading the mood, began to excuse himself with a respectful bow.

But Loreza stopped him. “Jeremy, stay. You are one of us.”

Jeremy, surprised, gave a brief smile and stepped back—not to leave, but to stand quietly at the edge of the room.

A pause followed. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Then Doran spoke. “It’s good you came. You should hear everything.”

–––––––––––––––––

Doran’s tone was measured as he began, but the tension in the room was unmistakable.

“Ten days ago,” he said, “Lewyn traveled with the Spears to mediate yet another dispute between House Yronwood and House Fowler. The initial talks were civil—tense, but civil. That changed during an evening feast at Yronwood, when Oberyn and Sarella Yronwood… became intimately familiar.”

He let the words hang in the air.

“They spent the night together.”

Mors shifted slightly. Jeremy looked down. Loreza remained still.

Doran continued, voice tightening. “What Oberyn hadn’t known—or didn’t care to consider—was that Sarella was already wed. To Karyl Wyl, heir of House Wyl. They have a child together.”

At that, Mors looked sharply toward his brother.

“When Karyl learned of the affair, he reacted as expected. Caused a scene. Ran to his father-in-law. Lord Edgar responded with fury. He accused Oberyn not just of dishonor, but of rape.”

A pause.

“Oberyn denied it, of course… and then made it worse.”

Doran turned, fixing his brother with a pointed look.

“He said something along the lines of—‘I was just doing her a favor. She looked like she needed a real man.’ Is that about right, Oberyn?”

Mors groaned and turned to his brother. “You didn’t.”

Oberyn gave a casual shrug. “I admit, it wasn’t my finest moment—but I meant every word. The boy always gave me a rat’s feeling. The kind that poisons you when you’re not looking. Honestly, he probably needs his maids just to find his cock when it’s time to perform. And her? If she didn’t already have a child, I’d have mistaken her for a maiden.”

Mors exhaled, both irritated and amused. “Gods, Oberyn.”

Even Doran’s face flickered with the ghost of a smirk before it hardened again. “That didn’t help,” he said dryly.

Loreza said nothing. Her expression remained unreadable—but her eyes were colder than usual.

Doran resumed. “The heir of House Wyl demanded Oberyn be executed on the spot. The Spears immediately drew steel to defend him. Lewyn stepped in before blood could be shed.”

Doran’s voice dropped into a gravelly impression: “Be careful, boy. You speak to a prince of Dorne. I can have you buried in sand for that tongue.”

Mors quickly turned to Lewyn.

Lewyn met his gaze, smirked faintly, and gave a single nod.

Doran pressed on. “Then Edgar stepped in. ‘Forgive Heir Wyl, Prince Lewyn,’ he said. ‘His betrothed—my daughter—was raped by your prince. He is justified.’”

Doran’s tone grew more clipped. “Lewyn refused to concede the accusation. ‘We do not know what happened,’ he said. ‘That’s an egregious charge.’ But Edgar wouldn’t back down. He demanded satisfaction. ‘Only one of us leaves this hall,’ he said. Then—” Doran glanced at Mors “—he asked if our brother would accept a duel, or if he was just a coward who thinks with his cock.”

Mors blinked. “He actually said that?”

Doran gave a tight shrug. “Lewyn and Oberyn both confirmed it.”

Oberyn grinned. “Against an old relic like him? Of course I accepted. I even offered to let the boy join. Figured I’d be accused of bullying the elderly—might as well throw in a child.”

Mors shot him a look. “You’re impossible.”

“No,” Oberyn said with a grin. “I’m entirely possible. Just rare.”

Doran carried on. “The duel was arranged. Formal. Spears armor for Oberyn—light, maneuverable. Short sword, twin daggers, spear, small shield. Edgar came in full Yronwood plate. Carried a massive two-hander like it was a walking stick.”

“When the duel began,” Doran said, “Edgar raised his voice. Declared, ‘Let all witness as the Bloodroyal scatters Martell blood, as the kings of the Stoneway once did.’”

At that, Mors’s expression turned grim. “This…”

“This,” Loreza interrupted, voice sharp, “was nearly a declaration of war. Had Edgar lived, we might be marching to Yronwood right now.”

Silence fell over the room. Doran resumed.

“Oberyn answered with a smirk… and then they fought.”

He described the clash in measured tones. Edgar’s raw strength. Oberyn’s speed and precision. How Oberyn chipped away at the older man—minute by minute, cut by cut—until Edgar’s armor was slick with blood and his knees began to buckle.

“When the moment came,” Doran said, “Oberyn struck fast. A feint. A kick to the chest. Edgar hit the ground, and Oberyn had his spear to his throat.”

Doran met Loreza’s eyes. “‘Yield,’ he said.”

A breath.

“Edgar did. And then he collapsed.”

There was a pause before Doran added, “The Yronwoods rushed to his side and took the still—very much alive—Edgar for care. Lewyn and Oberyn’s group departed immediately after.”

Lewyn muttered, “I’m just glad Oberyn’s finally learned some restraint.”

A beat passed. The room held its breath—somewhere between tension and reflection.

“Until two days later.”

Mors’s jaw tightened. “Then the ravens arrived. The tale had changed—Edgar was dead, they claimed. Killed in a dishonorable duel. And Sarella?” He exhaled sharply. “No longer a willing lover. Now, the victim of rape.”

Doran let the words settle, then looked around the chamber, his gaze steady.

“A coordinated smear,” he said.

And no one disagreed.

“It seems,” Loreza spoke with steel, “That the Yronwood have forgotten who rules Dorne.”

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The solar was quiet now, heavy with thoughts of vengeance.

Mors broke the silence. “So House Yronwood is making a play. Painting us as dishonorable aggressors to divide us from our bannermen. Edgar must’ve succumbed to his injuries after the duel.”

Doran gave a slow nod, his voice cold. “That’s what it seems. This is no longer mere insult—it’s provocation. Ormund Yronwood is rallying support. This is the beginning of something larger.”

He turned toward their mother.

Loreza sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. She looked heavier than before—slightly bloated around the midsection—and her skin bore strange dark patches. Mors had noticed them weeks ago and quietly asked the maester to investigate. So far, nothing.Still, he watched her carefully now.

She spoke.“The situation is precarious,” she said, calm but deliberate. “If we do not handle this carefully, the Yronwoods and their allies may rise in open revolt. And after our war in the Stepstones, we are in no shape for another conflict. The Iron Throne watches us closely.”

She paused, eyes tired.“But I fear confrontation is inevitable. We must begin preparations.”

Then she turned to Oberyn.“Oberyn… do you care for Sarella Yronwood?”

Oberyn scoffed. “It was a fun night that got out of hand.”

Loreza nodded. “Good.”

Doran leaned forward. “I’ll activate our assets within Yronwood’s ranks—and those close to their allies. Meanwhile, we must present the image of calm. And control.”

Mors, watching his brother, was once again surprised. Doran was more than he seemed.

Silence fell again as they each weighed their next move.

Then, unexpectedly, Oberyn broke it.“Maybe… I should go into exile.”

All eyes turned to him.

Surprisingly, it was Doran who spoke first. “No. You are a prince of Dorne.”

But Loreza tilted her head, considering. “…That could work.”

The surprise in the room was palpable.

Oberyn managed a resigned smile, laced with false bravado. “Perhaps I’ll visit the Free Cities. Scandal travels slower where the wine is better.”

Mellario leaned forward. “You could stay with my family in Norvos. They would welcome you.”

Oberyn nodded his thanks.

Mors added, “You’ve always wanted to study at the Citadel. This could be your chance.”

At that, Oberyn straightened slightly, genuine interest flickering behind his eyes.

Loreza watched him for a long moment, then offered a rare, weary smile. “Then it’s settled. To the realm, you are in exile. But this is a move—to buy us time. You may return when you choose.”

Oberyn dipped his head. “Thank you, Mother.”

And in that moment, despite the tension and rising intrigue, House Martell stood closer than ever.

Chapter Text

Early 276 AC — Sunspear

It had been a year since Oberyn’s scandal with the Yronwoods. For the past eight months, he’d kept to Oldtown, pursuing studies at the Citadel under the guise of exile. In that time, House Yronwood had tried to stir more trouble—raising whispers, fanning old grudges—but Loreza and Doran responded with quiet ruthlessness. Diplomatically and economically, the Martells pressured them at every turn. Spies were seeded across their domain. A standing army of 1,000 men had been stationed in Ghaston Grey, bolstered by a strong naval presence.

Eventually, House Yronwood backed down. Their lords had gone quiet, their ambitions buried—at least for now.

But the scandal had left a lingering consequence: a bastard son. Sarella Yronwood had given birth to a boy, named Maron Sand. The Yronwoods refused to let him be raised at Sunspear. For now, the Martells tolerated it to avoid renewed strife—but that would not last. The thought of the Yronwoods poisoning the boy’s mind with anti-Martell rhetoric was unacceptable.

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Mors stood at the Sunspear port, gazing out at the Dornish fleet. Since the Stepstones war, the fleet had more than doubled—swollen by captured vessels, repaired hulks, and new constructions alike. Their newest flagship, The Dornish Sun, had been rebuilt from the remains of a destroyed royal warship. Improved with salvaged Myrish and Tyroshi innovations once held by the pirates, it now stood as a symbol of Dorne’s strength.

As he admired the rising sails and dark hulls, waiting for the flagship to dock, a familiar, mocking voice cut through the sea breeze.

“What’s this? Is our great prince of Dorne practicing his regal stance for the ladies of Lannisport?”

Mors sighed—then gave a wry smile.“Only someone with your imagination could see me and think that. It’s called aura farming, Ashara. Try to remember the proper term next time.”

Elia chuckled softly beside Ashara. Behind her, Alyssa Uller followed with a serious expression, acting more bodyguard than lady-in-waiting.

They were bound for Lannisport, along with Doran, to attend the great tourney being held in honor of Prince Viserys’s birth. Whispers claimed it would be the grandest tournament Westeros had seen in fifty years.

Loreza would not be joining. Her health had worsened sharply in recent moons, forcing her to step back from active governance.

Ashara Dayne had joined the court six months earlier, serving as Elia’s lady-in-waiting. Alyssa Uller had done the same—though everyone understood she was there to guard, not gossip.

Ashara gasped in mock outrage. “I’m the one with the imagination! What even is ‘aura farming’? How do you come up with these ridiculous ideas?”She broke into laughter, clearly amused.

Elia joined in, grinning. “He’s always been like this. Can you believe he once asked during a lesson with the maesters if we could remove the salt from ocean water and use it to make our lands fertile?”

They all laughed—Mors included, though his smile carried a tinge of regret.‘If only I’d learned more practical science back then,’ he thought. ‘There’s so much that could’ve been useful in this life.’

At that moment, Doran arrived with Mellario and Areo Hotah in tow, followed by his retinue. He paused, his gaze lingering on the exchange between Mors and Ashara, a soft, knowing smile touching his lips

“So, everyone’s here? Good,” he said. Then his tone shifted—calm, but firm. “Remember, we are here to enjoy ourselves… but few outside of Dorne are truly our friends.”

They nodded, the weight of his words settling over them like a thin veil.

With that, Mellario kissed Doran goodbye, and the group began their ascent up the ramp to The Dornish Sun, while Mellario remained behind with her personal guard, Areo, to keep Loreza company.

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Lannisport  - Twelve days later

The Dornish procession arrived five days before the tourney’s start. Sunlight struck gold off their polished helms as they wound down the sloping road into Lannisport, crimson banners snapping in the sea breeze. Their sand-steeds moved with measured grace, hooves tapping stone in perfect rhythm.

At their head rode Prince Doran, tall and composed in burnt-orange silks, his expression calm despite the toll of the road. Beside him rode Elia, regal in bearing, her gaze scanning the growing crowd with poised curiosity. Alyssa Uller kept close, one hand never straying far from the hilt at her hip. Behind them followed Ashara Dayne—radiant even in her travel leathers—dark hair braided and pulled back beneath her hood, violet eyes sharp and watchful.

To Doran’s right—unmistakable, unmissable—rode Mors Martell.

His silver-blond hair was tied at the nape, catching the light like a banner. Sun-kissed skin stood in bold contrast to the black-and-crimson of his riding leathers, his posture effortlessly commanding. He rode flanked by Ser Jeremy and his personal guard, the Dornish banner trailing behind.

The people of Lannisport watched with uncertain eyes. A Targaryen prince—dressed in Dornish armor? Many had never even heard about him.

Mors met their stares in silence.

‘Almost four years since I was last here,’ he thought. ‘Lannisport looks more prosperous than ever.’

The streets were bustling with travelers from every corner of the realm—eating at stalls, haggling over goods, and, in some corners, already brawling. ‘That tracks.’

Just as expected were the wary glances cast toward the Dornish procession. And not only them—he noticed the same directed at the Northmen, too.

‘Interesting. They look more like the rest of Westeros than we do, but still—they worship the Old Gods. Seems there’s no escaping this kind of prejudice.’

He considered that as they rode on, eyes tracking every house banner and street exchange.

‘Perhaps there’s something to that. A common thread. I’ll mention it to Doran… though knowing him, he’s already weighed the possibility.’

–––––––––––––––––

Their pavilion was set on the western ridge, shaded by tall pines that overlooked the sea and the golden tourney field below. The western lords were housed near the center; the Martells—predictably—had been placed at a polite distance.

That evening, Mors stepped into Doran’s command tent. Charts of the jousting lanes and royal seating arrangements were spread beneath lamplight, weighed down by polished stones.

Doran glanced up from a scroll. “The parade begins in five days. Your tilt is scheduled for the first day.”

Mors poured himself a cup of water. “Still think this is wise?”

Doran studied him a moment. “It’s not about wisdom. It’s politics. You’re no longer a boy in need of protection—you’re our sharpest spear. Tywin has summoned the eyes of the realm to this field, and he wants them watching the lion. But this is as fine a moment as any to remind Westeros that Dorne, led by the Martells, remains strong. This will be your stage. Let them witness how brightly the Sun of Dorne shines.”

Mors exhaled. “...The Sun of Dorne.”

“What?” Doran said, smiling. “It’s the truth.”

He tapped the parchment before him. “You are special, Mors—blessed by the Seven, the Rhoynar, and whatever magic touches the Targaryens. But don’t mistake this for a battlefield. We are outnumbered here. Watched closely. You’re not to show anything… unnatural.”

Mors nodded. “I won’t use the aura. Not unless I have to.”

“Good.” Doran’s tone softened. “Your life is the most important thing. You are Dorne’s hope. But we won’t have that hope if you shatter yourself for roses and applause. Remember why we’re here.”

Mors drained the cup. “I know. I’m no flower knight, as Jeremy would say. I’m from Dorne.”

Doran nodded approvingly—then raised an eyebrow, smirking. “So... anything you want to say about your relationship with Ashara?”

Mors groaned. “Brother… aren’t we a little young to be worrying about this?”

Doran looked genuinely confused. “Too young? Many wed at thirteen or fourteen. I waited until much later, but only because I hadn’t found the right match until Mellario. Besides, we’re Dornish—we don’t follow all the realm’s traditions.”

Mors blinked.‘Right. I get so caught up in training, the Spears, and duties... I forget this world plays by different rules.’

“Regardless,” he said aloud, “I do enjoy Ashara’s company. She’s a dear friend.”

Doran smiled knowingly. “‘Friend,’ huh. Just remember—she’s a noble lady. If you only want to be friends, someone else might take her hand before you realize it.”

Mors flinched, just slightly. “I…”

Doran placed a hand on his taller brother’s shoulder. “No worries. There’s no need to rush. I just wanted to remind you.”

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Lannisport — Tourney Fields, Three Days Later

The field buzzed with life—bright pennants flapping in the breeze, laughter spilling from stalls, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced cider drifting on the sea air. Mors walked alongside Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, Jeremy, and a small escort of guards. The others chatted idly, sampling wares and watching the passing crowds.

Then—

“Arthur!” Ashara’s gasp turned to a delighted cry.

Before Mors could react, she was already moving—gliding across the grass with a radiant smile that lit up the field. Her hips swayed, her braids bounced—her presence drew eyes like moths to flame. Dozens of lords and knights turned to stare—smitten, spellbound.

Mors sighed inwardly.‘Here we go.’

At the end of her path stood Ser Arthur Dayne—silver hair tied neatly back, white Kingsguard cloak draped like a banner. His face broke into a rare, genuine smile. Beside him stood Ser Barristan Selmy, composed as ever—though for a heartbeat, his eyes widened in surprise. He bowed his head respectfully and stepped aside.

Mors’s gaze lingered on Arthur—then shifted.

Behind the Kingsguard stood someone even harder to ignore.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.He moved like a man who saw himself above all others—yet carried the bearing of a seasoned politician from a past life. Approachable on the surface, but always held at a careful distance. Every step was deliberate, every gesture calculated. His silver-blond hair caught the sun like spun light, and his violet eyes swept the field with practiced detachment.He didn’t walk like a prince.He walked like a god pretending to be one.

And yet…Something was off.Too perfect.

When Rhaegar spotted him, his face remained unchanged—but through his aura, Mors felt it. A quiet, sharpened jealousy. The resentment of a prince hearing too many stories of a cousin outshining him.

‘Like a man who resents being outshone in his own dream.’

Mors didn’t flinch—he played it smooth, as if nothing had happened. But inside, a quiet unease stirred.The implications were troubling.

The group reached the Kingsguard.

“Arthur,” Mors said with a smile, “it’s good to see you. Congratulations on joining the Kingsguard. All of Dorne is proud.”

Arthur returned the smile and saluted with informal warmth. “Thank you, my prince. You’re looking well. I was surprised to hear Ashara had become Elia’s lady-in-waiting. I’d have bet on her trying to be her bodyguard instead.”

“I can do both,” Ashara quipped, giving him a playful shove.

Mors turned to Barristan. “Ser Barristan, an honor. Our uncle Lewyn speaks highly of you. He often reminisces about your time together in the Ninepenny Kings’ War.”

Barristan nodded. “It was a privilege to ride with him—and with the Spears of the Sun. Prince Lewyn fought with great courage.”

By then, Rhaegar had joined them.

“My dear cousin Mors,” he greeted, smile polished to perfection. “It’s been over ten years. You must visit King’s Landing more often.”

Mors inclined his head. “Prince Rhaegar. I would have, but duty kept me in Dorne. Now that I’m older, I hope to make the time.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Rhaegar said, his gaze sweeping across the group.

It lingered a moment too long on Elia… and then Ashara.

Not with open lust—but something colder. Possessive. As if they were notes in a song he hadn’t written… and resented for it.

The mask reformed. Flawless. Regal. Untouchable.

But Mors had seen the crack.

“And yet, Arthur,” Rhaegar added smoothly, “how is it you’ve not introduced your sister? Lady Ashara, is it? And this must be Princess Elia. A pleasure to meet the two flowers of Dorne.”

Ashara offered a graceful curtsy—but as she rose, her eyes briefly flicked to Rhaegar. Whatever she saw there, it made her pivot. Without hesitation, she stepped beside Mors and slid her hand lightly around his arm, her posture relaxed, but unmistakably deliberate. Elia dipped her head in a reserved nod, her smile soft—yet clearly charmed.

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted to Mors. His expression remained smooth, but through his aura, Mors felt it—a fresh flicker of tension. A spark of hostility.

“Cousin Mors,” Rhaegar continued, “will you be partaking in the joust? I’d welcome the chance to measure myself against the Sun of Dorne.”

“I will, my prince,” Mors said. “It would be an honor to face the Silver Prince.”

Their eyes locked—intense, unreadable.

Rhaegar wore the quiet confidence of a man convinced the outcome was already written.

Mors met it with restrained defiance, the calm steel of someone who had no intention of being overshadowed.

The conversation moved forward—formal, courteous, and laced with veiled power.

When the moment allowed, Mors stepped away.

They continued strolling through the stalls, but his mind was no longer on any of it.

He caught Elia glancing back at Rhaegar—already too smitten.

‘Exactly what I feared.’

And the way Rhaegar had looked at Ashara...

Mors clenched his jaw.

‘I need to speak to Doran. Soon.’

Chapter Text

Lannisport - Day One of Tourney

The field north of Lannisport had been cleared, leveled, and dressed in silk. Rows of grandstands lined the western ridge, and a royal pavilion—stitched with black and red dragons—sat atop a raised platform at the center. Beyond it all, Casterly Rock loomed on the horizon like a silent judge.

The sky was clear, the sea breeze mild. Banners of every major house flapped in rhythm—Baratheon, Stark, Tully, Tyrell, Arryn, Lannister, and Targaryen. Each contingent was small by design—ten riders per house, enough to show pride without looking like a threat.

After about forty-five minutes of pageantry, House Martell was presented second-to-last.

They rode in deliberate formation: Prince Doran at the front, composed and stately in layered orange and gold. Just behind him rode Elia and Mors side by side—Elia regal in deep Martell crimson, Mors distinct in black and crimson with his silver-blond hair tied back.

Ashara Dayne rode at the center of the second line—striking in violet and silver, her posture proud, her gaze level. To her right rode Ser Jeremy Norridge, sharp-eyed and armored in the Martell sunburst. To her left was Alyssa Uller, relaxed in the saddle but watchful, her cloak drifting in the breeze.

Four Martell knights followed at the rear, banners held high, spears upright, forming the silent backbone of the column.

They drew murmurs.

Mors could feel it—the pause in applause, the held breath. Not just for Dorne, but for him. Platinum hair, violet eyes, sun-kissed skin. The way their eyes moved from him to the king, uncertain. ‘Expected,’ Mors thought. ‘They’ve never known where to place me.’

Their horses halted before the royal dais. Trumpets sounded once more.

Lord Tywin Lannister stood first. “Lords and ladies, knights of the realm—Dorne joins us in honor of the prince newly born. May the tourney bring glory, and may our realm remember its unity.”

He spoke the words cleanly, but his tone held more cold than warmth. When he stepped aside, King Aerys rose, unhurried.

The king looked thin and pale in the sun, but his voice still carried.

“And what a sight it is,” Aerys said. “The sun rises late, but brings heat when it comes. I see the Martells have sent both fire and beauty.”

He let his gaze fall on Elia, then linger on Mors. His mouth curved slightly.

“You look like your father,” the king said. “Daeron was always too handsome for his own good. Until Summerhall burned that out of him.”

Mors bowed his head, slow and measured. “His blood runs true, Your Grace.”

Aerys studied him. “We’ll see.”

Mors nodded toward Rhaegar.

Rhaegar returned the gesture, still smiling. He sat straight beside the king, composed as ever. But behind the charm, his eyes were calculating—almost vacant.

–––––––––––––––––

The feast was held under a vast canopy tent, strung with lanterns and warmed by braziers. Tables stretched end to end, and the smell of roast fowl, wine, and sea air filled the space. Nobles wandered freely, their guards held at the perimeter. For now, it was all civility.

The king remained only for the first toast.

“To Viserys,” Aerys said, raising his cup. “May he grow up in a realm better than ours.”

The silence that followed wasn’t long—but it was telling. When the king left soon after, half the room exhaled at once.

Mors stayed near Elia and Ashara. They were a striking pair—Elia with her steady grace, Ashara with the kind of beauty that demanded attention whether she wanted it or not.

The music dulled. Then it stopped altogether.

Rhaegar stood.

He stepped onto a small dais near the center and lifted a harp of silver and weirwood. The room quieted without command. When he began to play, the melody came soft and slow—minor notes and low chords, weaving through the lanternlight like smoke.

The harp looked too delicate in Rhaegar’s hands. Silver strings, pale weirwood body, polished to a mirror sheen. When he began to play, the notes came soft, searching.

Not perfect. Some chords landed wrong. Others stretched too long. But the pauses said more than the music. This wasn’t for the crowd—it wasn’t even for the king. It was for something he couldn’t name yet.

Mors watched him carefully.‘What is he trying to do? This doesn’t fit the perfect prince act. He’s still searching… maybe this is him thinking out loud.’

The hall was quiet, caught between reverence and something less comfortable. No one spoke until the last note faded.

Rhaegar stood and bowed slightly.“This was imperfect,” he said. “But we are among friends. Thank you for listening.”

The applause that followed was soft, almost hesitant—but genuine. For a moment, the prince had felt closer. Human.

Mors said nothing. He just watched, thinking.

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Later in the evening, with the feast still roaring, Brandon Stark made his way toward Ashara’s table. He was young, broad-shouldered, and already a head taller than most men his age. Confidence radiated off him—helped along by a few too many cups of Arbor gold.

“Lady Dayne,” he said with a grin, stopping by her side. “I haven’t seen you on the dance floor. Thought I’d fix that.”

Ashara didn’t look up right away. She sipped her wine.“You thought wrong.”

Brandon blinked, chuckled. “Then allow me to rephrase—”

“There’s no need, Lord Stark,” Mors cut in smoothly. “She was waiting for me.”

Brandon turned, the grin slipping as his eyes took in Mors’s features—platinum hair, sun-kissed skin, and violet eyes that caught the firelight.“You... you’re that prince. From Dorne.”

“I suppose I am,” Mors said, voice calm. “Prince Mors Martell. And you must be Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell.”

Brandon’s jaw tightened. He looked between Mors and Ashara, weighing his next words.“I only meant to ask her for a dance.”

“Of course you did,” Mors said with a polite smile. “But it seems she’s not interested. Forgive us if that wasn’t clear.”

Brandon stood a moment longer, teeth clenched. He tried to hold Mors’s gaze—but those violet eyes didn’t blink. There was something behind them that made his throat tighten.

A few Northmen moved in behind Brandon. Among them was Jorah Mormont—tall, broad, with a jaw like hewn stone.

“Is there a problem here, my lords?” Jorah asked, his voice steady but firm.

Mors kept his smile. The tension in the air didn’t seem to reach him.“None at all. The North and Dorne have always shared… a mutual respect. I was just enjoying a quick chat with Lord Brandon.”

He laid a hand on Brandon’s shoulder—light, but with unmistakable weight. Brandon felt it like stone pressed to steel.

“Young Stark—perhaps sometime soon we’ll speak with your lord father. Dorne’s always open to new trade. Spice, steel, and such. Who knows?”

When Mors released him, Brandon nodded quickly.“Y–yes. Of course. We’re... friends. I’ll tell my father.”

“Good.”Mors turned toward Ashara without looking back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me... a maiden awaits.”

He offered Ashara his hand. She took it, smiling like she hadn’t heard a word. He led her to the floor, and the music took them.

Across the hall, Ser Barristan Selmy watched. He said nothing. But his eyes didn’t leave Ashara for a long time.

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Next Morning – Day Two of Tourney

The archery grounds had been laid out on a sunlit bluff above the southern ridge. Rows of straw targets lined the field, some marked with painted lions, others with dragons and roses. Dozens had gathered early—lords, ladies, squires, knights. It was the first open contest of the tourney, and wagers had already begun.

Mors stood with Jeremy near the edge of the gallery, arms crossed, cloak pinned at the shoulder. He watched the longbowmen test their range with impassive focus.

Idrin stood calmly at the line, adjusting his bracer. His dark beard was trimmed close, his form sharp beneath the sunburst sash. He wore no sigil of his own—only the Martell colors, plain and proud.

“He looks relaxed,” Jeremy noted.

“He should be,” Mors said. “He’s better than half this field.”

“And the other half?”

“We’ll see.”

–––––––––––––––––

The first rounds eliminated most quickly. A few arrows wobbled off mark, others struck cleanly. By the second round, the noise had shifted—less idle talk, more eyes narrowing.

By the final grouping, four archers remained. A young lord from the Stormlands, Gulian Swann. A Vale retainer with polished silver fletching. A young Redwyne archer with too much swagger. And Idrin.

His final shot came after a moment’s pause. He adjusted for the crosswind, breathed out slowly, and loosed.

The arrow struck just shy of center. The Stormlander’s next shot landed true—barely, but enough.

Applause ran out through the crowd, their winner had emerged.

–––––––––––––––––

Later, as the crowd dispersed, Elia found them just outside the pavilion.

“That was well done,” she said warmly. “Second place for one of our own is no small feat.”

Idrin gave a modest smile.“I had hoped to bring home the win, my lady.”

“Forget that. You outscored that smug Redwyne archer—that’s a victory by itself. And two hundred gold dragons isn’t nothing.”

He bowed with a quiet grin.“You’re too kind, Princess.”

A few feet away, Mors watched the exchange. Several Reach lords passed nearby, glancing toward Idrin with more interest than before.‘Good,’ Mors thought. ‘They’ll think twice before underestimating my men.’

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The youth melee was held just past midday on the northern field—flat ground marked with flags and wooden fencing. The air smelled of sweat and trampled grass. The crowd had thickened again, though it felt more relaxed now. Lords leaned back in their chairs. Ladies fanned themselves beneath parasols.

Ashara Dayne sat with Alyssa Uller and Elia Martell near the shaded end of the field. Plates of fruit and cheese rested on their laps, mostly untouched.

“They’re all the same,” Alyssa muttered. “Hair slicked back, grinning like cocksure pageboys.”

Ashara tilted her head. “That Tyrell boy’s got good posture. Shame he’ll be on his back in a minute.”

“They’re too pretty to bruise,” Ashara added louder, just as Mors approached.

“Then it’s fortunate none of them are fighting me,” Mors said, dry as sand.

Ashara smirked. “You’d ruin their weddings.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes. “He’d ruin their bones.”

Elia laughed softly. “Try not to ruin the feast, at least. Tywin might have you thrown out for damaging the decorations.”

Mors gave a small shrug. “He’s welcome to try.”

He looked over the field, then offered a hand to Ashara. “I’ve no interest in this pageantry. Walk with me, my lady?”

Ashara smiled, already rising. “Anything but this. But shouldn’t you be preparing for your joust tomorrow?”

“Resting is part of the preparation.”

They left together, walking side by side, their laughter trailing behind them. Jeremy, Idrin, and Tahlor followed at a respectful distance. Alyssa stayed with Elia, both still smirking as they watched the Reach boys posture and swing.

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Late evening – Doran’s tent

Mors stepped inside, ducking slightly beneath the flap. The lanterns within cast a soft, golden glow across the canvas walls. Doran sat alone, nursing a drink, eyes distant.

“Mors,” he said without looking up. “Sit.”

He poured a second cup of Arbor Gold and passed it over.

“You seem troubled, brother,” Mors said, taking the seat across from him. “Is there anything you need my help with?”

Doran gave a faint shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. Focus on your joust tomorrow. I was just thinking about the intelligence we’ve gathered since arriving.”

“Oh?” Mors tilted his head. “Anything I should know?”

Doran hesitated, then spoke. “Tensions between the Hand and King Aerys continue to fester. But more curiously… some whispers suggest Tywin might be close to arranging a betrothal between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister. That’s what our contacts have picked up, at least.”

“Elia won’t take that well,” Mors said quietly.

“No,” Doran agreed, sighing. “She won’t.”

A pause stretched between them. Then Mors spoke again, slowly. “That… might not be the worst outcome.”

Doran looked up sharply, brows drawn. “What do you mean? A match with the crown would be immensely valuable for Dorne.”

Mors didn’t answer immediately. He took a long sip of wine, then leaned back. “When I spoke with Prince Rhaegar two days ago… something felt wrong. There was a coldness beneath the courtesy. A… tension. And not just my instinct. I felt it.”

Doran’s gaze sharpened. “You mean you felt it—or you FELT it?”

Mors nodded. “The latter.”

Doran fell into silence, swirling the wine in his cup. “Why, do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” Mors admitted. “But we should proceed with care.”

They sat in quiet thought, the soft flicker of the lantern the only movement in the tent.

Mors glanced at his brother then—at the subtle glint in Doran’s eyes, the one that never quite faded. The one that hinted at old ambition not yet laid to rest.

Mors sighed, drained the rest of his cup, and rose to his feet.

“I’ll call it a night,” he said. Then, after a pause: “As for that other matter—we’ll have to wait. It may never come to pass, given the tension between the Hand and the King… But if it were up to me, I’d rather Elia never go near the prince.”

Doran looked up at him, the flickering lantern light dancing in his eyes. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

“Good night, Mors.”

“Good night, brother.”

Mors stepped out into the cool night air, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling across his shoulders like a cloak.

Chapter Text

Lannisport - Day Three of Tourney – Early Morning

The sun had barely begun its climb, casting long, golden rays over the private Martell training yard just outside their tents. A circle of sand had been cleared and raked smooth, flanked by Dornish guards in light armor standing at attention along the perimeter. No spectators were permitted beyond the line. This session was for family only.

Prince Doran stood with Elia and Ser Jeremy beneath a shaded canopy, each holding a cup of morning tea. Elia watched with quiet interest, her gaze flicking between the three figures in the sparring ring. Jeremy stood with arms crossed, lips twitching in faint amusement as he watched Mors stretch lightly, spear in hand.

Across from him stood Ashara Dayne and Alyssa Uller. Ashara’s violet eyes burned with challenge, her midnight-black hair tied back, twin swords drawn. Beside her, Alyssa gripped a training spear, her stance grounded and efficient—like a coiled spring. Both women were dangerous in their own right, trained by masters and tempered by hardship.

But this morning, they faced something else entirely.

Mors.

The duel began without a signal. Mors moved first—with fluid, unhurried grace. He stepped in and out of their range as if the ground answered only to him. When Alyssa lunged, he sidestepped with ease, catching her shaft with the butt of his own spear and twisting it from her grip. A second later, Ashara came in from the flank—fast, elegant, blades sweeping low and high.

Mors bent, spun, and vaulted clean over her—landing behind both women before they’d even reset.

“Quicker recovery, Ashara,” he called mid-motion. “Don’t commit with both hands when you're off-balance.”

Ashara hissed under her breath and whirled, striking again. This time, she moved in sync with Alyssa, who had already recovered her spear and came from the opposite side. Steel clashed. Dust rose. Jeremy raised an eyebrow, impressed.

For the next five minutes, the rhythm turned fierce.

Ashara’s twin blades danced like silver threads. Alyssa struck with crisp precision, her spear jabbing low before hooking up. Mors countered with seamless grace—parrying, sweeping, disarming. He moved like a storm with a center—always in control, always one step ahead. He ducked beneath a sword slash, rolled forward, and popped up behind them again.

When Alyssa lunged hard, Mors let her pass—then caught her arm gently mid-spin, redirecting her momentum. For a moment, his hand held her steady—firm, but careful.

Alyssa’s breath caught. A faint blush touched her cheeks before she composed herself and pulled back into position. Mors tapped her back lightly with the flat of his spear.

“Good aggression,” he said quietly. “But tighten your core on the follow-through.”

Doran, watching from beneath the canopy, gave Elia a glance.“Was that what I think it was?”

Elia smirked into her teacup.“Hmm. I do believe Alyssa appreciates Mors more than most. But she’s far too stubborn and serious to act on it.”

“Oh,” Doran murmured amusedly, returning his gaze to the ring.

Ashara’s cheeks flushed with exertion, her eyes narrowing. She charged again—faster this time—feinting high before sweeping low. Mors flipped over her cleanly, landed just behind her blade, and this time didn’t strike. He simply placed his spear at her throat.

She froze.

Breathing hard, she smiled despite herself.“Show-off,” she muttered.

“I’m Dornish,” Mors replied, lowering the weapon with a faint grin. “And I’m a prince. A bit here and there should be acceptable.”

“Enough for now,” Doran called from the sideline. “You have a joust to win.”

Mors bowed and stepped back, offering both women a hand. They rose together, breathing heavily but uninjured—only tested.

Elia looked to Jeremy, a quiet question in her eyes.

Jeremy nodded. “They’re not bad,” he said. “But he’s something else.”

And he was.

Effortless. Fast. Precise. Tireless.

As Mors wiped the sweat from his brow and set his spear aside, the others began to gather their things. Elia glanced toward the training yard, wistful.

“I wish I could fight like Ashara or Alyssa,” she said softly. “My body’s too weak.”

Doran sighed at that, shaking his head. But Mors only laughed.

“Please,” he said, walking over. “The gods had to balance you out somehow. If you were this beautiful, smart, and strong? The world would end.”

Elia laughed and stepped back quickly as he moved in.

“No! Don’t come near me with all that sweat—I just bathed!”

He lunged toward her in jest, arms outstretched, and she dodged him with a squeal of laughter. Even Doran allowed himself a faint smile.

And for a moment—before the weight of crowns, courts, and jousts—there was only family, and the warmth of a morning well spent.

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The tourney field had shifted overnight.

What was a ceremonial bluff two days prior had become a battleground. The tilt had been cleared and re-packed, sand leveled, banners adjusted. Wooden viewing stands curved around the lists, shaded by linen and gold-threaded cloth. Lords and ladies filtered in by midmorning, their voices low with anticipation.

Arthur Dayne entered the lists before noon.

The crowd stirred the moment he appeared—silver cloak trailing behind, white armor polished to a sunblind gleam. The sword at his side wasn’t Dawn, not today. His jousting lance was simple, marked only with the seven-pointed star of the Kingsguard. The Dayne standard waved above the viewing gallery, just beside the Targaryen dragon.

Mors watched from his tent near the eastern end, seated beside Jeremy and Idrin.

Arthur faced a knight from House Tarly. Well-built, older, solid in the saddle. It didn’t matter.

On the first pass, Arthur struck clean—center mass. The force of the hit sent the knight spinning backward, unhorsed before he hit the ground. He landed hard, groaning in the sand.

The crowd roared.

Arthur didn’t raise his hand. He simply rode the length of the tilt, calm and unbothered, and dismounted with precision.

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Mors’s first bout came an hour later, against Ser Rickard Rowen of the Reach—a tall, broad man with a chest like a barrel and arms thick as oak limbs. He rode a heavy destrier and held his lance low, like a battering ram about to break down a gate.

Mors sat motionless atop his sand-steed, breath slow and steady. His helm was plain—black and red, without plume. Only the sun-and-spear on his breastplate marked his rank.

He shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting for the wind and a subtle lean in the ground.

The horns sounded.

Ser Rickard charged hard, lance level. Mors met him clean—angled just right. His own strike hit below the shoulder, firm and controlled. The jolt rippled through his wrist, but he held steady. Rickard teetered, lost his seat, and crashed sideways into the dirt.

Not elegant. But decisive.

Mors glanced back once, saw the knight rising with the help of a squire, and gave a short nod before riding on.

As he neared the edge of the lists, he turned to salute the crowd. His eyes found Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, and Doran seated together in the stands.

He offered a small nod and wave.

Elia and Ashara smiled brightly, waving in return.Alyssa’s smile was there too—restrained, fleeting—as if she wanted to wave but held herself back at the last moment.Doran met Mors’s eyes and gave a single, proud nod.

It was all brief. But Mors caught every part of it.

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Jorah Mormont’s bout followed.

He faced a young Lannister squire with more polish than experience. The squire held his lance properly, leaned low, and even made a clean pass.

It didn’t matter.

Jorah’s strength was brute-force. His strike shattered the squire’s shield and tossed him backward like a sack of flour. The sound of the impact rang louder than the cheers.

From his viewing seat, Mors nodded once. ‘Unrefined, but dangerous.’

–––––––––––––––––Rhaegar Targaryen glided through his round.He rode as if the field belonged to him—controlled, flawless, untouchable. Every pass was precise. His lance struck true, his balance never shifted. His silver-and-black armor gleamed without a speck of dust, as if it had been polished mid-charge.

He unseated his opponent cleanly on the second tilt, then circled back with quiet composure. At the end of the lane, he offered the fallen knight a charming smile—humble, even in victory.

The crowd erupted, fully enraptured by the grace and presence of their crown prince.

Reining in at the far end, Rhaegar removed his helm, his silver hair catching the light. He gave the crowd a single, elegant wave. Then his gaze caught Mors.

The smile he offered was brilliant. But it held edge. Less warmth—more challenge.

He turned, dismounted, and disappeared into his tent, squire trailing behind.

Mors watched him go.‘Always so composed. Even his victories feel… rehearsed.’

–––––––––––––––––

After several bouts, the field narrowed quickly.

Ser Barristan Selmy unseated a Royce knight with surgical precision—two passes, both clean hits. The Royce heir landed hard on the second tilt. Barristan dismounted, helped the man up, and said nothing more.

Match after match passed, with highlights from Ser Gawen Swann of the Stormlands and Ser Denys Arryn of the Vale. If Mors recalled the intelligence correctly, Denys was being quietly groomed as a possible heir to the Eyrie.

When Jon Connington claimed victory over a knight from the Riverlands, he cast a long look toward Mors—challenging, almost hostile.

Mors raised an eyebrow.‘I wonder what that’s about.’

Then he watched Connington stride over to Rhaegar’s side, standing just behind the prince like a loyal hound.‘Ah. I see.’

–––––––––––––––––

As the sun dipped low behind the hills, Mors, Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, Doran, and their retinue made their way back toward the Martell tents. The day's matches had been long—over thirty bouts—but the group moved with an energy that lingered just beneath their fatigue.

Ashara practically bounced with excitement, speaking animatedly beside Elia, who leaned slightly on Alyssa for support.

“Did you see how manly Mors looked when he unhorsed Ser Rickard Rowen? That was amazing! If I remember right, he’s the younger brother of the Lord of Goldengrove. Very influential in the Northmarch, and a skilled jouster—but Mors made it look easy!” She paused only to breathe before continuing. “Arthur was amazing too, of course. As expected—from the brother I trained!”

Elia chuckled, amused by Ashara’s energy. “Yes, that was impressive. But I expected no less from my sunny brother.” She gave Mors a look, then added with a teasing smile, “And the brother you trained has been exceptional since before he earned his white blade.”

Mors shook his head slightly, smiling but staying silent.

Elia turned thoughtful. “What truly surprised me was how exceptional Prince Rhaegar was. Everything about him—his posture, the way he rode—it was so… regal. Like he wasn’t tilting, but gliding. It was…” she trailed off, searching.

“Like poetry in motion?” Mors offered, brow raised.

“Yes!” Elia said, lighting up. “Exactly that.”

Mors’s smile dimmed slightly. He cast a glance at Doran, who met it with quiet amusement.

He turned back to Elia. “That sounded like more than a compliment on his form. Anything you’d like to add, dear sister?”

“You just don’t appreciate it like I do,” Elia replied, unbothered. “He was captivating.”

Mors forced a thin smile. ‘Captivating already, is he?’ he thought—but said instead, “He’s more skilled than I expected. I look forward to testing that myself.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Elia said.

“I’d better not be,” Mors replied, then glanced toward Ashara with a chuckle. “And after thirty-two tilts, I’m amazed you still have the energy to talk this much.”

Ashara scoffed. “Please. It takes more than that to wear me down.”

Mors smirked. “Of course. It would take much more to slow down the legendary Lady Ashara Dayne.”

“Exactly,” she said, flipping her hair dramatically. “Just look how well you performed after training with me this morning.”

His mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t dream of denying it.”

He looked to Alyssa, walking just behind Elia. “And what did you think of the matches, Alyssa?”

Alyssa looked up, slightly startled, her eyes locking with his. She froze for a second.

“Alyssa?” Mors asked again, curious.

“Oh? Oh!” she blinked, then straightened with a slight blush. “Apologies. Most jousts were technically sound. I’m no expert, but I counted nine or ten who could reach the final rounds—provided they don’t face each other too early.” She hesitated, then added, “That includes you… my prince.”

Mors gave her a warm nod, but said nothing more.

The group continued toward the tents, the sound of distant laughter and clanking armor still drifting on the breeze. The day had been long—but the real tests were still ahead.

Chapter Text

Lannisport – Day Five of the Tourney – Morning

The sun rose over Lannisport with regal brilliance, gilding the stone ramparts and fluttering banners in warm gold. The harbor murmured with the creak of rigging and gull cries, but the true storm was forming at the tourney grounds. Today, the morning melee would unleash chaos and steel, and by afternoon, the semifinals and final tilt would decide the champion of the lists.

The previous day had seen twenty-eight matches, culminating in a tightly fought quarterfinal round. Rhaegar Targaryen had faced Jon Connington, and while the match drew thunderous applause, it felt more like theater than competition. Rhaegar’s victory was clean—graceful even—but to Mors, it seemed that Jon had pulled back. The look Connington gave him afterward—tense, regretful—spoke volumes. He had wanted to face Mors himself.

Mors Martell had endured a punishing match against Ser Jorah Mormont. The man rode like a battering ram, his strength legendary, more bear than knight. It took everything Mors had—exceptional balance, timing, and a subtle strength boost—to unhorse him. Afterward, he’d saluted Jorah with genuine respect.

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gawen Swann—both Stormlanders—tilted with clean honor. Selmy’s precision proved superior, sending Gawen crashing to the ground on the second pass. Yet Gawen had impressed many with his strong showing throughout the tourney, despite an earlier incident where he had accidentally crippled a knight of the Reach. The man would survive, but likely never walk again—a sobering reminder that these games carried real consequences.

The final bout of the day was the most thrilling: Ser Arthur Dayne versus Ser Denys Arryn. They shattered six lances between them in a duel of supreme skill and control. In the end, Arthur edged ahead on points, earning the win. Denys accepted the result with grace and honor, congratulating Arthur and even inviting him to spar in the future. Mors had known little of Denys before, but now he suspected that if the Vale named him heir, they would be in capable hands.

–––––––––––––––––

Mors Martell stood beside Doran and Elia in the royal viewing box, armored now in light flexible plate over Martell crimson. Ashara and Alyssa flanked Elia, while Martell guards held the perimeter. The stands thrummed with anticipation. Seventy-five men had signed up for the melee—a mix of knights, squires, and hedge fighters. Among them, seven bore the sun-and-spear.

"I see Jeremy and Idrin down there," Doran said, nodding toward the field. "Ah—there’s Tahlor as well."

Mors spotted them adjusting helms and strapping gauntlets. Jeremy stood nearby, speaking calmly to a Dornishman with twin daggers at his waist. All seven Dornish fighters were spaced apart, but Mors could feel the undercurrent of unity.

He tightened the strap of his gauntlet and nodded once to Doran. “Time to stretch the legs.”

Without ceremony, he descended from the box and strode onto the field.

The moment the crowd spotted the Prince of Dorne joining the melee, a wave of murmurs swept through the stands. His entry tilted the odds. Most had expected him to sit this one out.

The horn blew. The gates opened.

Seventy-five fighters surged forward.

The opening minutes were chaos. Steel met steel, sand erupted under boots, men shouted, roared, cursed, and fell. Mors moved like water through fire—reading momentum, stepping out of range, striking only when it mattered. He disarmed a knight with a twist, downed a sellsword with the butt of his spear, and vaulted over a two-man scuffle to land behind a Reachman, tapping him out with a sweeping kick.

Nearby, Idrin and Tahlor fought back to back with ruthless harmony. Jeremy, further across the field, disabled men with calm efficiency, never wasting a step. Their coordination turned the melee into something else—less a brawl, more a demonstration.

From the royal box, Elia rose to her feet.

"He's not even trying yet," she murmured.

"He's… amazing," Alyssa added softly, almost to herself.

Ashara caught the words despite the low volume. Smiling slyly, she slipped an arm around Alyssa’s like a sister claiming credit."Of course he is. I raised that boy myself."

Alyssa blushed, realizing she’d spoken aloud.Elia chuckled, clearly amused by the moment.

Mors’s attention snapped toward a flash of silver and a shout of warning.

Brandon Stark—reckless as ever—was charging a man twice his size, broadsword high. The Westerlander sidestepped and raised a mace to counter. Mors was there before it landed, deflecting the strike with his forearm plate and sweeping the attacker off his feet with a spinning leg-hook.

Brandon looked up, stunned.

“Stay focused. Stay alive. This isn't a game,” Mors said simply, then turned away.

A short while later, the crowd stirred. Jon Connington had entered the field late.

Mors spotted him immediately—and caught the briefest glance exchanged between Jon and Rhaegar in the stands.

‘So that’s the game.’

Jon made his way toward Mors like it was fate. For a moment, they circled. Then blades met. Jon fought with fury—technically sharp, but emotionally wild. Mors parried, deflected, countered. But just as he disarmed Jon’s main hand, three others lunged at him from the blind side.

A trap.

The crowd gasped.

Mors stopped holding back.

He spun low, slammed one with a shoulder-check that cracked ribs, flipped the second with a leg sweep, and slammed the pommel of his spear into Jon’s arm with a bone-jarring crunch. Jon staggered back, clutching his wrist, rage turning to agony.

The last attacker froze mid-charge—and wisely backed away.

Mors stood tall, breathing calm. The arena had gone quiet.

Then he turned and walked away.

He continued to fight for a few more minutes, supporting his own in critical moments, but when the final circle formed, he yielded.

Jeremy, Idrin, Tahlor, and three others stood among the last. Mors gave Jeremy a knowing nod, then stepped outside the bounds.

From the viewing box, Elia’s eyes shimmered with pride. Doran simply crossed his arms.

“He could have won,” Ashara said.

“He didn’t need to,” Doran answered. “This wasn’t about that.”

And from the ground, as the crowd buzzed with what they’d just witnessed, Mors simply wiped sweat from his brow and returned to his family—his message made. The semifinals awaited.

–––––––––––––––––

Lannisport — Day Five of the Tourney — Afternoon

The sun stood high over the tournament grounds, its heat tempered only by the salty breeze rolling in from the harbor. The stands were packed to bursting—lords, ladies, knights, and commonfolk all pressed forward in anticipation, their murmurs rising like the tide with every movement near the lists. At the front, beneath a canopy of gold and red, sat King Aerys himself, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, seated at his right.

Only four knights remained. Four names that stirred whispers across the realm:

Mors Martell. Rhaegar Targaryen. Arthur Dayne. Barristan Selmy.

–––––––––––––––––

Semifinal I — Mors Martell vs. Ser Barristan Selmy

The moment Mors rode onto the field, the air changed. Opposite him, Ser Barristan Selmy waited in pristine white, his silver-plated helm reflecting the sun.

Both men saluted. Horns blew.

The first pass was thunder.

Wood shattered on contact—both lances splintered, both knights held. The crowd roared.

Second pass—another clash, with neither giving ground.

Third—Barristan struck true, but Mors adjusted mid-pass and countered with shocking precision. Another draw.

The fourth and fifth tilts continued in kind—technical brilliance, iron will, and unspoken respect. Neither yielded, and each tilt left the crowd breathless.

Only on the sixth pass did Mors shift—just slightly—allowing himself a subtle aura boost, no more than a whisper of power. It was enough. His lance struck under Barristan’s shoulder, jolting him just enough to tip balance. Barristan held—barely—but yielded, raising a hand before dismounting.

Mors immediately removed his helm and rode to him. He dismounted in turn and bowed deeply.

Ser Barristan offered his hand.

"That," he said, breath calm but eyes alight, "was the best match I’ve had in years."

"And an honor I won’t forget," Mors replied.

–––––––––––––––––

Semifinal II — Prince Rhaegar Targaryen vs. Ser Arthur Dayne

The crowd held its breath, eyes fixed on the two figures at either end of the lists.

On one side, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat his steed with practiced elegance—silver hair gleaming beneath the sun, black armor polished to a mirror sheen. Every motion was deliberate, princely.

Opposite him, Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, towered in pale silver armor. His white Kingsguard cloak trailed behind him like a banner of silence. Composed. Imposing. Revered.

They rode.

First pass—clean, textbook strikes. Lances shattered like kindling.

Second—closer, heavier. No clear edge.

Third—Arthur leaned in, his lance a spear of precision. Rhaegar reeled but held.

Then came the fourth.

Rhaegar adjusted. A subtle shift—unorthodox, slightly wild. Uncharacteristic.

It worked.

His lance struck beneath Arthur’s pauldron with just enough force to stagger the white knight’s horse. Not a fall—but enough. The tally favored the prince.

Arthur circled back, dismounted, and approached with a lopsided grin. He gave a formal bow, then added, “You’ve improved, my prince. I was certain I had you.”

Rhaegar returned the smile—but it flickered at the edges, more polite than pleased.

“You clearly held back. I’ve still much to learn.”

Arthur smirked. “Don’t know what you mean.”

The crowd roared, the tension easing into cheers. They had their final.

Prince versus Prince.

Sun versus Dragon.

–––––––––––––––––

The Final — Mors Martell vs. Rhaegar Targaryen

They rode out under a sky blazing gold.

Mors studied his opponent with calm detachment. He could feel it already—Rhaegar was good. Polished. Strategic.

But he wasn’t better.

Mors was faster. Stronger. Sharper.

He could win this in a single pass. But he chose not to.

Instead, he gave them a show.

Two tilts. Then three. The fourth, he let Rhaegar land a partial blow. The fifth, he struck clean—but pulled the power slightly.

Only on the sixth pass did he end it.

His lance struck squarely, lifting Rhaegar from his saddle and sending him into the dirt—hard, but not brutal. The crowd held its breath.

Rhaegar’s Kingsguard began to rush forward—but Mors was faster.

He was already there, dismounting, offering his hand.

“My prince,” Mors said, offering a firm grip. “Apologies. Are you hurt?”

Rhaegar’s smile was brilliant—but it cracked for a heartbeat.

“Of course not,” he replied. “It was a wonderful match. I look forward to a rematch in future tourneys… dear cousin.”

Mors smiled back. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Then, without hesitation, he lifted Rhaegar’s arm high into the air as if to signal joint victory.

The crowd erupted.

From the royal box, Doran chuckled. “Mors has learned a great deal. He handled that very well.”

Elia smiled, warm and proud. “Of course. He is our brother.”

But her eyes remained fixed on Rhaegar.

–––––––––––––––––

The Crown of the Tourney

Mors stood alone before the cheering masses as his name was called.

“Prince Mors Martell of Dorne—Champion of the Lists!”

The herald’s voice echoed like thunder. A wreath of golden roses awaited him, to be placed upon the head of the Queen of Love and Beauty.

He turned toward Elia. She met his gaze, and for a second, he prepared to step toward her.

But she raised a brow… then playfully tilted her head toward Ashara, feigning offense.

As if to say, you better not mess this up.

Mors exhaled—then seemed to make a decision internally and shifted course.

Ashara’s eyes widened. He stepped toward her, removed the wreath, and placed it gently atop her dark hair.

Ashara Dayne blushed.

Actually blushed.

The crowd roared again, but this time it was something different. Realization. Recognition. A whisper spreading through nobles and smallfolk alike.

Something had changed.

Ashara dipped into a deep, graceful curtsy, still blushing.

And Mors—tall, sun-kissed, and resplendent in Martell crimson—offered his arm.

The sun of Dorne had won more than a tourney.

He had had announced himself.

Chapter Text

Lannisport — End of Tourney Feast, Evening

The great feast had begun.

Banners of crimson and gold billowed over the keep, the sound of music and laughter spilling out from the tall archways of House Lannister’s hall. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh fruits, Dornish and Arbor wines, and steaming loaves. Lannisters toasted loudly. Tyrells smiled tightly. Riverlords mingled carefully. But all eyes, sooner or later, found him.

Mors Martell stood near the head table, dressed in formal Martell crimson trimmed with gold, a subtle black sun embroidered over his chest. His silver-blond hair was tied back, framing the quiet pride in his violet eyes.

Doran raised his goblet with a smile. “You’ve done Dorne proud.”

Jeremy offered a nod of approval from across the table, quiet pride radiating from him like a father watching his son come into his own.

But it was Ashara who reached him first, practically bouncing. “You were incredible,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Come. I’m claiming the first dance. You don’t get to refuse me tonight.”

Mors sighed—but smiled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He turned toward the others. “I guess my biggest match begins now.”

Elia was already watching them both, her smile wide and warm. Alyssa, usually so composed, allowed herself a quiet grin, her eyes lingering on Mors a moment longer than she likely meant to.

‘Even she smiled… I must really be glowing.’

As they crossed to the dance floor, a lull in the music caught the room’s attention. Murmurs rose as Prince Rhaegar approached.

He came flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, moving with that practiced regal elegance of his, silver hair shimmering under torchlight. His expression was mild, polite—even gracious.

“My dear cousin Mors,” Rhaegar said, extending a hand. “That was a match for the ages. I offer my congratulations—and my respect.”

Mors accepted the hand. “You honor me, my prince. The match would not have been great without a great opponent.”

“Perhaps.” Rhaegar’s smile did not reach his eyes. “You’ve won more than a tourney today. You’ve earned the admiration of many... including my father.”

Arthur nodded to Ashara, then turned to Mors with a smile.
“Exceptionally well done, Prince Mors. The youngest knight in the realm—and now a tourney champion. You’re crafting quite the legend around yourself.”

Barristan offered a simple, “Well done, Prince Mors,” his tone sincere—though he kept inadvertently stealing glances at Ashara.

Rhaegar continued, eyes sweeping toward the women. “I do hope you’ll visit King’s Landing sometime. The court could use more honor—and charm.” He turned to Elia, offering a slight bow. “You especially, my lady. I would be honored to host you.”

Elia blushed deeply, her hand fluttering at her chest. “You’re too kind, your grace.”

Ashara offered a polite smile and subtly stepped back toward Mors, their arms brushing as she resumed her place beside him. A flicker of annoyance lingered in her eyes—she hadn’t appreciated the interruption. Alyssa gave a courteous nod, her expression composed, unreadable as ever.

While exchanging pleasantries with Rhaegar, Mors kept his smile steady—but his mind was already working.
‘He’s trying too hard… and not just with me. He’s watching them too. Especially Elia. What is it you’re really after, prince?’

Before Rhaegar could say more, another Kingsguard arrived—Ser Oswell Whent, clad in white plate.

“Prince Mors,” Oswell said with a bow, “His Grace requests your presence.”

Mors met Rhaegar’s eyes one last time. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Rhaegar said smoothly, though something flickered behind the mask—something brittle. “We’ll speak again… tomorrow, if you’re available.”

‘He didn’t like being interrupted.’

“I’ll be sure to find you in the morning, my prince,” Mors replied. Then he turned to Ashara and the others, offering a nod and a soft smile. “If you’ll excuse me… we’ll finish our dance when I return.”

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Royal Pavilion — Minutes Later

The King’s pavilion was surprisingly quiet. Only two Kingsguard stood within—Gerold Hightower and Harlan Grandison. Oswell Whent, having escorted Mors inside, took his place by the entrance. Seated between them was the King himself. Jonothor Darry had remained in King’s Landing with the Queen and the newborn Viserys.

Aerys II.

Though still handsome, his once vibrant gold-silver hair now streaked with gray, his beard thin and wild. His robes shimmered in black and red, but it was the intensity of his stare that truly weighed upon Mors.

Mors dropped to one knee. “Your Grace.”

Aerys raised a hand. “Rise… Prince Mors.”

Mors obeyed, standing tall.

The silence stretched. The King studied him, unblinking. The fire behind him crackled. One of the guards shifted slightly.

“You truly are a prince,” Aerys said at last. “Unfortunately, in the wrong kingdom.”

‘Who starts a conversation that way…?’

“Come. Sit… cousin.”

Mors hesitated, then moved to the seat before him. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I see so much of my uncle in you,” Aerys murmured. “But there’s more… Something else in your blood.”

Mors remained quiet.

“If only you could be my heir… or the ruler of Dorne instead.” Aerys gave a laugh—soft and strange. “Wouldn’t that unsettle a few peacocks in my court? Hmph. Does Tywin truly believe I don’t see what he’s trying to do?”

‘I have no idea where this is going. What is he talking about?’

“I wanted to congratulate you. You’ve done something I’ve longed to do—put that pompous boy of mine in his place. And no one else was worthy. Or… permitted.”

Mors didn’t respond.

“Just don’t get any ideas,” Aerys said, suddenly sharp.

Mors bowed his head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. I know my station.”

Aerys smiled then. Genuinely, even. “Good. Good…”

He leaned forward, voice lower. “If I had a daughter, I’d betroth her to you without hesitation. But in lieu of that…” He waved a hand. “I offer you a boon. One request. Name it, and if I find it worthy, it shall be granted.”

Mors blinked. “That is… a great honor, Your Grace. I won’t refuse—but I ask time to consider it. I do not yet know what I lack.”

Aerys laughed, delighted. “Good! That means you’re being treated well—even in that second-rate kingdom of yours.”

Mors didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Aerys said, his grin sharpening. “A month. That’s it. I’ve been known to forget things—and people.”

He waved a hand lazily. “Dismissed.”

Mors stood, bowed deeply. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As he turned to leave, he felt the King’s eyes on his back until the tent flap closed behind him.

‘That… was not what I expected.’

He looked back at the now closed tent flap as if questioning what just happened.

‘Is this a good thing or a bad thing?’

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When Mors returned, the feast was still in full swing. Laughter echoed beneath the pavilion’s silken canopy, mingling with the rhythm of dancing feet and the clink of goblets. Toward the northern contingent, a small brawl had broken out—already being subdued by guards and drowned in drunken apologies.

He made his way back to the table, where Ashara spotted him almost instantly.

“You’re late,” she said, offering her hand.

He took it with a smile. “Had to deal with a king.”

She rolled her eyes. “Excuses.”

They danced. And kept dancing.

Whatever awkwardness had hung earlier vanished in the rhythm between them. Mors noticed Elia dancing as well—mostly with Rhaegar. Ashara had apparently declined the prince's offer earlier, citing a need for a personal break. She never circled back.

Instead, she stayed with Mors, spinning through song after song until the night began to blur around the edges. Still, she insisted he dance with Alyssa a few times—despite the latter’s hesitation.

When the celebration finally wound down, Mors stepped out into the cooler air with Elia, Ashara, Doran, and the others. Just past the edge of the pavilion, Arthur Dayne stood waiting, looking uncertain.

“Ser Arthur,” Mors greeted.

“Prince Mors,” Arthur returned with a slow nod.

Mors glanced at his siblings and friends, gesturing for them to continue ahead. Jeremy lingered behind with Tahlor, Idrin, and two other members of his personal guard, staying close.

Mors approached. “Is something the matter?”

Arthur hesitated, then spoke. “I… I’m not sure.”

Mors frowned. “What do you mean?”

Arthur looked away for a moment before answering. “I thought serving the prince would be my greatest honor. And in many ways, it still is. But... something feels off.”

He paused, then added, “At first, I dismissed it as eccentricity. Royal quirks. But tonight, the way he looked at my sister… at your sister… others too.”

Mors’s expression darkened.

Arthur’s voice was quiet now. “I took a vow. I intend to keep it. But… just in case, take care of Ashara. Of Elia. Of those close to you. That’s all.”

He turned and walked off into the shadows of the camp.

Mors watched him go, a growing weight settling in his chest.

‘So I’m not the only one who felt it.’

He let out a quiet sigh and rejoined his guards—already thinking ahead.

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As Mors approached his tent, he found Ser Qerrin Toland—one of his personal guards—waiting outside. The knight looked worse for wear, tunic dusty and a fresh black eye darkening one side of his face. He had finally returned from the covert mission Mors had assigned him and four others five days prior.

Mors raised a brow. “Qerrin. Good to see you back… though it seems things didn’t go quite to plan. Come in and report.”

Qerrin saluted crisply. “My prince.” He followed Mors inside the tent.

“The mission was successful. We made contact with the target three days ago. He was exactly as vile as the reports claimed—had just murdered a lowborn husband and…” Qerrin hesitated, his jaw tightening, “...and brutalized the wife until she was a dead. We arrived too late. The room was awash in blood—it was beyond savage.”

He paused before continuing. “Also, he was much bigger and stronger than we imagined. Easily six-five, maybe six-six. Had to weigh over three hundred pounds—and he couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve. Daro took a bad hit during the fight. We had to delay our return while he recovered, but he’s resting now. Stable.”

Qerrin finished, his voice still edged with anger.
Mors nodded once, absorbing the report before asking, “How did you make it look?”

“We staged it so it looked like the husband, with his last breath, drove a blade through the bastard’s heart from behind. In his drunken stupor, he knocked over a candle into the spilled ale, setting himself, the bodies, and the house ablaze. We ensured there were no witnesses.”

Mors said nothing for a long moment. Then he exhaled, weary. “You did well, Qerrin. And thank you. Make sure Daro gets enough rest”

Qerrin bowed his head. “It is my duty, my prince. I’ll take my leave.”

Mors watched him go. Then, alone in the quiet, he sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, hands to his brow.

“Goodbye… Gregor Clegane,” he murmured.

Then he rose, changed into his sleeping clothes, and lay down for the night.

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Sunspear – The Dream

A massive dragon loomed before him. Its jaws opened wide—and fire poured forth, not in a steady torrent, but in a dance.

No… not just fire. Shapes moved within the flames—shifting, writhing—glimpses of something deeper. Something real.

Through the fire, Mors saw.

Planky Town was burning.

The market piers crackled in infernos. Ships were ablaze, their sails flapping like torn wings as panicked citizens screamed and scattered along the muddy streets. Bells tolled in desperation—but no help came. Only death.

From the smoke emerged a monster.

A giant of a man—nearly eight feet tall—led the charge. His bare chest was smeared with soot and blood, his eyes as hard as black iron. A cruel, jagged axe rested across his shoulder, and at his waist hung a small sword that, on his massive frame, seemed no larger than a dagger. Behind him, pirates surged forward, howling in tongues Mors couldn’t understand, crashing into the defenders like a tide of steel and fire.

Sunspear’s gates groaned open—not by the defenders’ will, but by the hand of someone within. A traitor. The hinges screamed as the gap widened, and the enemy surged through like a breaking wave. Red walls fell to breach, defenders cut down as flames licked the sandstone. Steel clanged in the palace halls, shadows dancing with the fire.

And then—

Loreza.

Her golden robes were torn, her face bloodied, but she stood defiant in the Tower of the Sun’s outer corridor, her sword arm trembling but raised. The pirates demanded surrender.

She spat.

Behind her, Areo Hotah roared as his axe cleaved two intruders in half. His face was twisted in fury—but there were too many. He fought like a bear cornered in fire, but they were swarming him.

Through smoke and chaos, Mellario appeared—staggering, her head bleeding, barely conscious. She was dragged back by a brute, her cries muffled. Her feet scraped against the stone as she reached toward Loreza—but her eyes rolled back.

“No!” Loreza lunged—only to be struck in the ribs by a mace, her sword clattering to the ground. She dropped to one knee, blood gushing from her side.

Still, she raised her eyes.

And through the flames—she looked straight at Mors.

One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot but full of fire.

Her arm trembled upward, barely rising. Her voice cracked, broken and hoarse.

“…Mors.”

Everything froze.

The flames surged, engulfing the vision in gold and red. Her image dissolved in fire.

––––––––––––––––––––

Lannisport – Mors’s Tent

Mors gasped—violently.

He jolted upright in his bed, drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving like he’d run leagues. His blanket was soaked, his tunic clung to him, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

He clutched his ribs, trying to steady his breath.

The fire was out.

The room was dark.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“What in the seven hells was that?” he whispered aloud, voice raw.

But he already knew.

It hadn’t been a nightmare. Not truly.

It was something else. Something older.

A vision through fire.

A dragondream.

Chapter Text

Lannisport — Next Day, Before Dawn

The chill of the pre-dawn air clung to Mors as he fastened the last buckle of his armor. The camp was hushed, broken only by the distant snort of horses and the faint whisper of the sea against the shore.

He crossed swiftly to his Personal Guard’s pavilion, each step crunching over the damp earth, the cold air sharpening his focus.

Outside, a lone sentry sat near the entrance, fighting off the pull of sleep. The faint sound of approaching steps snapped him upright.

“My prince,” Arodan said, standing sharply at attention.

Mors returned the salute. “Arodan. Your turn on watch, I see. No time for rest tonight—come, let’s wake the others.”

Arodan blinked at the unexpected order but fell in beside him. Together they pushed through the tent flap.

Inside, the guard slept in scattered fashion—on bedrolls, leaning against crates, one snoring faintly in his chair.

“Up,” Mors’s voice cut through the dark like steel.

Jeremy stirred first, rubbing at his eyes before focusing on the armored silhouette before him. “My prince?”

“Get the Eclipse ready,” Mors said, his tone brisk, leaving no room for hesitation. “Fully stocked—sails and oars both. We leave at the break of dawn. I’ll explain on the way.”

Jeremy studied him for a heartbeat, reading the urgency in his expression, then gave a single sharp nod. “Aye.”

Around him, the rest of the Eclipse Guard shook off sleep and began strapping on armor, gathering weapons, and packing without a single complaint.

Mors didn’t linger. He stepped back into the cold, heading with long strides toward Doran’s tent.

–––––––––––––––––

He made his way to Doran’s tent, saluting the patrolling guards before slipping past them into the dark interior.“Doran,” he called firmly, “wake up—it’s urgent.”

Startled, Doran sat up, pulling on a robe, his expression groggy and frowning.“Mors?” His voice was thick with sleep. “What’s going on? Did something happen?” He glanced toward the entrance—it was still pitch black outside.

“Yes,” Mors said, his tone so flat and serious it cut through the haze instantly. “I… just had a nightmare, but… it was more than that.”

Doran straightened, reading the gravity in his brother’s face. “More?”

Mors stepped closer. “Brother, I believe I saw the future. A very near future. I saw Mother killed, Mellario taken by pirates, Planky Town burning to the ground… and betrayal from within our own walls.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Doran’s eyes widened, his drowsiness gone in an instant.“This…” Doran began, almost hesitant, “couldn’t it just be a nightmare?”

Mors shook his head. “If it was, I would have felt it. Everything in me says this was real. I think…” he exhaled slowly, “…I think this was a dragondream.”

Doran blinked. “Like Daenys the Dreamer? From the Targaryen stories?”

Mors nodded. Silence followed—thick, uneasy.

Finally, Mors broke it. “I’m leaving. I’ll take the Eclipse with my guard. If we push hard, we can reach Sunspear in five days with minimal rest.”

Doran studied him, then gave the smallest of nods. “You’re serious—and it seems you’ve already made your decision.”

“I have.”

“I honestly don’t know what to think of this… but with everything I’ve seen from you… if it’s true, they’re in grave danger.” His eyes widened as another thought struck. “Most of our standing army is at Ghaston Grey with the fleet, keeping the Yronwoods in check. Sunspear has never been more exposed.”

He fixed his gaze on Mors. “You must protect Mellario and Mother. We’re relying on you.”

Mors inclined his head.

“Very well,” Doran said, rubbing his brow. “I’ll finish matters here and follow. I’ll send ravens immediately… You’re right—if we travel together, it would take twice as long. I hope you’re wrong, brother… but if you’re not…”

His gaze darkened. “The implications of this power—for our house and for the realm—are greater than we can yet imagine. I’ll cover for your departure, but speak of this to no one who doesn’t need to know.”

He exhaled heavily. “Now go. There will be no more rest for me tonight.”

They clasped forearms.“May the gods be with you, Mors,” Doran said.

Mors nodded but said nothing, only turned toward the flap, his mind already on the tides.

–––––––––––––––––

Mors reached the docks of Lannisport, his gaze falling on The Eclipse—his ship. A sleek, modified Myrish fast interceptor, sixty feet from bow to stern, painted entirely in matte black with subtle crimson and gold trim in Martell patterns. Its lateen sail, dyed the same deep black, caught the wind, the faint outline of a red eclipse emblazoned across it. The shallow-draft hull was built for speed and stealth, its low silhouette perfect for slipping past enemy eyes. A light ballista was mounted on the bow, with javelin racks along the rails—optimized for a small, disciplined crew, though capable of carrying over twenty if needed.

As Mors stepped aboard, the familiar creak of the deck met him. His crew was already in motion, tightening ropes, checking arms, stowing supplies. Every man and woman here was part of the 11th Regiment of the Spears of the Sun—his Eclipse Guard. They served as his personal escort, guards, and handpicked operatives for missions that never reached official records.

Only Bedwyck was absent, still at Ghaston Grey with Manfrey. Daro stood near the mast, his left arm in a sling—the price of their last covert mission. Counting himself, that left ten ready for whatever lay ahead.

He was about to give the order to cast off when five figures strode quickly down the dock toward him.

“My prince, wait!” one called. “We’ll be joining you!”

Mors stepped forward, surprised. “Ser Tolen, you’re coming? I thought your regiment was assigned to my brother’s protection.”

“Yes,” Tolen said, catching his breath, “but Ser Daven has returned from his mission—he’s taking over. There are still enough men for Doran’s guard. The five of us will ride with you.”

Mors gave a short nod, his expression softening. Doran was taking this warning seriously—more seriously than Mors had dared hope. In his place, Mors might have been skeptical of a “vision,” but it seemed his word carried more weight with his brother than he’d realized.

Two other Spear regiments had been assigned to this voyage for added security. Their lieutenants, Ser Tolen Vyr and Ser Daven Quarr, were men Mors knew well. Daven was a grizzled veteran who had mentored and advised Mors during the last pirate war; Tolen, the youngest lieutenant in the Spears, was already spoken of as one of the most promising talents in Dorne.

“Good,” Mors said. “Glad to have you aboard.” He turned toward the quarterdeck. “Jeremy—are we ready?”

Jeremy saluted sharply. “Aye, my prince. All supplies stowed, crew accounted for.”

“Then let’s not waste a heartbeat. We sail now. It’s believed traitors within Sunspear have allied with pirates to harm our princess.” His voice hardened. “That is unacceptable. We move to intercept—or to reach them before it’s too late. Is everyone ready?”

A chorus rose from the deck.“For Dorne!”“For the Princess!”“Damn the pirates!”

The ropes were cast off, the sail caught the wind, and The Eclipse slipped out of Lannisport, her black hull slicing through the dark waters like a shadow with purpose.

–––––––––––––––––

Five days later

The Eclipse cut through the waves like a shadow, her black sail snapping in the wind. They had made quick stops at the Shield Islands and the Arbor for supplies, but now the horizon ahead pulled every eye forward.

“Smoke,” Daro muttered from the bow, his face tightening. “Is that…?”

Mors narrowed his eyes, his jaw set. “Without a doubt. Either a ship or Planky Town.” His voice sharpened. “Everyone, ready arms—then row. We need to get there now.”

“Aye!” came the chorus as crew and guard alike seized the oars, driving the ship forward with quick, powerful strokes—Mors’s aura subtly flowing through them, keeping fatigue at bay and their rhythm unbroken.

The closer they came, the more the scene unfolded. Mors felt his stomach twist. It wasn’t exactly like the dream—this time, it seems Planky Town had been warned. The defenders were overwhelmed, yes, but not caught completely off guard. He saw levies fighting in the streets, townsfolk fleeing in organized clusters. The docks were chaos—burning ships both pirate and Dornish, but the black sails and strange colors of the raiders vastly outnumbered Dorne’s banners.

“Quickly!” Mors called. “Intercept the lead ship!”

The Eclipse swung toward a massive pirate vessel at the forefront. Fire arrows hissed from their bow, catching enemy sails in slow-burning orange bloom. The hulls drew close—too close—until they slammed together with a bone-jarring crack.

“Tolen! Cover our rear!” Mors barked before vaulting over the rail.

He landed in the fray like a thrown spear. A throwing knife left his hand before his boots even touched the deck—burying itself in a pirate’s throat.

An arrow whistled toward him. Time seemed to slow. ‘Wait… can I grab this out of the air?’

His hand shot up—fingers closing around the shaft mid-flight. ‘That actually worked.’

Reversing his grip, he spotted a charging sailor whose eyes went wide in disbelief. Mors drove the arrowhead straight into the man’s eye. The body crumpled.

A blade hissed past as he ducked, ramming Solaris into another man’s gut. He ripped the spear free in a spray of crimson, then drew a dagger and slashed his throat.

For a heartbeat, the deck went still. Eyes turned toward him. ‘Everyone’s watching… perfect. Time to really frighten them. Hmm… oh, let’s Gary Oldman this.’

Mors stood with spear in one hand, dagger in the other, head lowered. Then, slowly, he looked up. His violet eyes locked on them.

They flinched. One man dropped his weapon and leapt overboard.

“Next.”

The nearest pirate didn’t have time to react. Mors slashed his throat, seized the collapsing body, and used it as a springboard—vaulting high and bringing Solaris down in a brutal thrust into the neck of one of the two pirates pressing Jeremy. The man dropped instantly.

An arrow thudded against the small shield strapped to Mors’s back; without looking, he flung a second knife at the bowman, shattering his grip and sending the weapon clattering to the deck. Surrounded now, he hurled Solaris like a spear into another pirate’s chest. In the heartbeat before they could swarm him, his hands found a shortsword and a dagger—blades flashing in a whirling storm. Speed and strength surged through him in sharp bursts, every strike snapping bone or severing tendon. Four men fell in as many breaths.

As the last collapsed, Mors sheathed the sword and dagger, retrieving Solaris in a single, fluid motion. Around him, the fighting dwindled—the Eclipse’s crew mopping up the last resistance.

“No time to rest!” Mors called. “To the shore!”

The Eclipse disengaged, cutting toward the docks. Planky Town’s defenders—ragged but unbroken—were slowly forcing the raiders back. Mors and his men became the hammer to their anvil, striking in a sudden, brutal charge that shattered the enemy morale and sent them scattering.

“Don’t chase—on me!” Mors called, rallying his guard.

Smoke still curled above the harbor, but movement on the horizon caught his eye—Dornish sails, cutting toward them in formation.

“Reinforcements from Ghaston Grey!” Mors called out, voice carrying over the clash of steel. “They’ll be here in a few hours. Hold the line—push them back!”

Another knot of pirates was breaking away, retreating inland toward Sunspear. Mors drove his men after them. As they neared the city, the enemy slowed—waiting. Watching the gates. Something was wrong. The gates stayed shut.

Instead, arrows hissed down from the walls, tearing into the pirates and forcing them to scatter.

Mors’s group intercepted them mid-withdrawal—fifteen against thirty-five. And at the front…

The giant from his dream.

Easily seven and a half feet tall, broad as two men, his bare arms corded with muscle and smeared with grime and blood. The axe he carried wasn’t just a weapon—it was a tool for making death slow and agonizing. His dark eyes fixed on Mors, unblinking.

The street seemed to narrow between them.

–––––––––––––––––

Mors stepped forward, his voice cold and cutting.“You’ve chosen the wrong people to attack, pirate.”

The massive man grinned, teeth flashing under the soot and blood. His voice was rough, his Common tongue broken.“You… Valyrian… from Dorne? Is you… Mors?”

Mors narrowed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I am or not. You end here.”

The giant laughed, deep and cruel.“Hah! I have finally found you! Remember the name of the man who ends you—Tazrik Vharro! I will avenge my brother, Dravos!”

With a roar, Tazrik charged.

The Eclipse Guard unleashed their last volley of throwing knives, cutting down several pirates before they could close. Mors pushed his aura out in a wave, flooding his men with heightened speed and strength. The strain bit at him immediately—stamina burning fast.

He had to end this quickly.

Tazrik’s axe came in wide and heavy. Mors dropped low, sliding across the blood-slick cobblestones under the swing, rising behind the giant with a slash to the hamstring. Tazrik spun, the blade of his axe cutting air as Mors vaulted over a fallen crate, spearing down from above. The giant caught the haft of Solaris in his massive hand, twisting violently—Mors kicked off his chest to free the weapon, flipping back to land in a crouch.

They circled. Pirates and Dornish alike stepped back, giving the duel its space.

Mors feinted left, then burst right, vaulting off a low wall to come in from above again. This time Solaris found flesh—driving into Tazrik’s thigh. The giant grunted, staggering and dropping his axe.“This damn spear… come close and face me, Dornish bastard!”

Mors advanced for the killing thrust—only for Tazrik’s hand to blur to the short sword at his hip. Steel met steel with a high, unnatural ring. The blade sheared clean through Solaris’s tip, then slashed across Mors’s breastplate, cutting it open like wet parchment.

Mors’s eyes widened. “What…? Valyrian steel!”

Tazrik straightened, blood running down his leg, but grinning like a wolf.“Hahaha! Took it from a pompous noble of Volantis. Too small for me… but just right to carve pretty faces like yours.”

Mors tossed the broken spear to Jeremy and drew his short sword and dagger.“Then let’s make this round two.”

By now, more Dornish guards had arrived, surrounding the remaining pirates. They shifted uneasily under the spears aimed their way, dropping their weapons in surrender.

Mors moved in again. This time he was faster—much faster.“You… bastard,” Tazrik spat between blows. “You were just… playing before! How are you so fast now?!”

Mors didn’t answer.

Tazrik staggered back, feigning weakness. Then his boot struck the ground, sending a spray of sand toward Mors’s face as he lunged, Valyrian steel sword driving straight for the heart.

But Mors was already moving—vaulting up Tazrik’s own arm, twisting midair, and bringing his short sword down in a brutal arc. The blade punched deep into the side of the giant’s neck.

Tazrik’s massive frame shuddered. He toppled forward, the Valyrian steel sword slipping from his grasp with a dull clang. Blood pooled beneath him as he forced out his final, choking words.

“Dravos… it seems we… we both… got killed… by this… Valyrian… bas…tard…”

His eyes glazed over, and the giant was still.

Ser Qerrin stepped in, gaze fixed on the corpse. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.“My prince… this monster looks like the captain you killed on the island where I was imprisoned—during the Pirate War. Three years ago.”

Mors, turning the Valyrian steel blade in his hand, arched a brow.“Oh. So that’s what he meant...”

He exhaled, almost to himself.“Blood begets blood.”

Around them, the last fifteen surviving pirates were bound and dragged away. Out in the bay, Dornish warships were running down the vessels still trying to flee.

Mors wiped the blood from his face, his eyes sweeping over the battlefield.“A resounding victory?” he muttered, the words flat.

Then his gaze turned east, toward the Stepstones Islands deep in thought.

End of Arc II — The Tip of the Spear

Chapter Text

Sunspear- Loreza’s Solar, Late 273 AC

POV I – Loreza Martell

The afternoon light spilled into Loreza Martell’s solar, warm and golden, glinting off the sea beyond the window. She sat in her cushioned chair, hands loosely wrapped around a cup of tea, watching the distant horizon. Beside her, Elia sat quietly, a book resting in her lap, though her gaze often drifted to her mother’s face rather than the page.

Across the room, Doran was finishing orders to the last of the commanders, his voice calm but firm as he detailed the arrangements for Dorne’s defenses. The plans were meticulous—enough to hold the Marches and coasts while Lewyn Martell led the fleet and army into battle, and while Mors’s strike group—including Oberyn, Manfrey, and Ser Jeremy Norridge—slipped into the Stepstones to assault an island where captives were rumored to be held.

When the final commander departed, the room grew quieter. Only Doran, Mellario, Elia and Loreza remained, with Areo Hotah and a few trusted guards standing sentinel by the door.

Loreza spoke first, her voice low but edged with worry.“We shouldn’t have agreed to let them go. They are still children, Doran. How can we let children fight our wars?”

Doran exhaled slowly, the sound more weary than frustrated. This was not the first time she had raised the concern. His gaze flicked to Elia, then to Mellario, who rose from her seat and moved to Loreza’s side.

“Mother,” Mellario said gently, taking her hand, “you must believe in your children. They are stronger than you give them credit for. You’ve seen their progress. Even Areo is impressed with Mors—and little impresses him.”

Elia, silent until now, set her book aside and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder in quiet support.

That coaxed the faintest smile from Doran. “Mellario is right. And with Mors’s abilities, plus Lewyn backing them, this is the safest mission they could take. You know how they are—if we don’t involve them in a controlled way, there’s no telling what reckless thing they might attempt instead. Especially with Manfrey’s condition… they’re like brothers. They’d do anything for each other.”

Elia added softly, “And you know how fiercely they protect one another. They’ll watch each other’s backs.”

Loreza sighed, saying nothing for a while. The sound of the sea drifted faintly through the open window. Finally, she spoke again—her eyes still on the horizon.“I know this. But the issue is… Mors is too exceptional. There have already been attempts on his life. What do you think will happen once stories of his exploits spread?” She turned to face Doran, her gaze sharp. “I fear that once he takes the stage, he will never be able to leave it again.”

Her tone hardened. “I agreed to your decision. But you must help him carry the burden. He is our future. He is our Sun. I don’t want him burning out before his time.”

Doran looked as though he had been firmly chastised, but his expression was steady. “I will. We will. Together, as a family, we’ll ensure he can bear it. Don’t worry, Mother—together we are strong.”

Loreza’s shoulders eased, just slightly. “…Good.”

She turned back to the window, her reflection faint in the glass. The tea had cooled in her hands, but she drank it anyway, her eyes still fixed on the sunlit sea.

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Sunspear - Doran’s Solar, Early 275 AC

POV II – Doran Martell

The afternoon sun bled through the shutters, casting long bars of light across Doran Martell’s desk. Stacks of parchment sat in front of him—petitions, reports, and letters—each one a reminder of the knots tightening around Dorne.

He read in silence for a time, then pushed back from the desk with a sigh, rubbing his brow. Fatigue sat heavy behind his eyes, matched only by the weight of the decisions before him.

House Yronwood had been relentless—both in their open accusations and their quiet strikes—since Oberyn’s supposed “killing” of Lord Edgar Yronwood and the equally false charge of “raping” Sarella. Their demands for blood had not ceased, and while he and his mother had always kept the larger game in mind, there was no reality in which he would hand Oberyn over. If war came of it, so be it.

And yet… war was not something they could afford. Not now. Not after the bold campaign in the Stepstones, which had brought them gain but also suspicion from the Crown. In such a contest, the Iron Throne would almost certainly side with Yronwood. That was an outcome Doran could not permit.

Marriage and alliances—those were the safer weapons. Oberyn was out of the question; his nature would win them more enemies than allies. That left Mors, Elia… and, perhaps, Manfrey.

Mors was complicated—by far the most valuable piece on the board, but now tangled in the secret of his magic. If that truth became widely known, the cost would be his life. Elia was the most urgent matter—well within marriageable age. The best offer so far had come from Ser Baelor Hightower, though Elia had shown no interest. Privately, Doran and Loreza still held out hope for a royal match.

He picked up another letter and frowned. Oldtown again. The wax bore the Hightower seal—though the sender was no lord.“Malora ‘the Mad Maid’ Hightower,” he muttered, breaking it open. “This makes five from her. Three proposing marriage to Mors, one offering to serve as his maid, and now…”

He stopped, blinking at the words.“…to be used as a stool by Mors?”

He stared at the parchment a moment longer before setting it atop the steadily growing pile from her. With a slow exhale, he pressed his fingers to his temples.“What in the Seven Hells is wrong with this woman?”

He was still shaking his head when a knock sounded at the door.“Come in,” he called.

The new master, Torvian, entered—a man in his early thirties, medium-length hair already thinning at the temples. More importantly, he was Dornish. Loreza had plucked him from an orphanage years ago for early grooming, and Doran trusted him more than most.“My prince,” the maester said, offering a sealed letter. “From Lord Beric Dayne.”

“Oh?” Doran took it, breaking the seal. His eyes moved quickly over the page, and his expression softened into a faint smile.“Ha. Good. Mors always finds a way to help me, even when he doesn’t realize it.”

He thought a moment, then looked up. “Write to Lord Beric. Tell him we cannot force anything, but we will gladly accept Ashara Dayne as one of Elia’s ladies-in-waiting. That would allow her and Mors to interact freely. If something develops naturally between them, we would have no cause to refuse.”

The maester nodded. “At once, my prince.” He left the room.

Doran sat back, smiling to himself.If Mors and Ashara align, it would give us the counterweight we need to weather Yronwood’s wrath.

He laughed softly and rose from his chair. “I should tell Mother. She’ll love it—she’s always liked Ashara.”

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Sunspear - Training Grounds, Mid–275 AC

POV III – Ser Qerrin Toland

The clatter of steel rang across the training yard, mingling with the barked calls of drill commands as the fighters steadily improved their mastery of what Mors had dubbed Dornish Martial Arts. He claimed it was derived from something called ‘Krap-Maka’—or something like that. Different, certainly, but absolutely effective.

Qerrin Toland rolled his shoulders as he stepped back from the sparring ring, sweat running down the lines of his face. The Dornish sun was merciless, but he welcomed the heat—it reminded him that he was alive.

Alive, and far from the stinking, forsaken island where he had nearly rotted to death. Mors Martell had pulled him from that hell—starved, half-delirious, his wrists raw from chains. Qerrin had later sworn his sword to the prince never looked back.

Now, he trained alongside the men and women of the Eclipse Guard—Mors’s own special regiment, formed from the best and most trusted. They were officially part of the Spears of the Sun, but everyone knew their true role: Mors’s personal shield and strike force. The name came naturally, from the sleek black interceptor ship they traveled in: The Eclipse.

Qerrin stepped into the shade of an awning and took a long pull from a waterskin. His eyes swept across the yard, following the rhythm of blades and shields. A good group. A dangerous group.

He was older than most of them at twenty-five, though not the eldest—Ser Jeremy Norridge held that honor at forty-four, a seasoned knight with graying hair and the steady bearing of a man who had become both mentor and father figure to Mors. Then came Jorran, the one-eyed terror at thirty-five, and Cale, all raw strength and quiet focus, twenty-seven.

Among the younger blades, Daro stood out—twenty-two, fast and fluid with twin swords. Syenna, twenty-one, was as deadly as she was beautiful, her talent for infiltration making her invaluable in the shadows. Ser Tahlor Sand, twenty, freshly knighted and once Jeremy’s squire, was a model of knightly discipline and one of the best raw talents Qerrin had ever seen.

Arodan Sand, also twenty, had once been a smuggler; now he was their eyes and ears in the underworld, a man who could find the hidden things others didn’t even know existed. Ser Bedwyck Uller, cousin to Prince Manfrey Martell and a close friend of Mors, was an exceptional knight at twenty-two, new to the unit but already proving his worth.

Idrin Qho, seventeen, had the looks of a court dandy but the aim of a seasoned marksman, his skill with bow and throwing knives matched only by his mischievous grin. His sister, a famed courtesan, was the subject of whispered stories in Planky Town and beyond.

And then there was the youngest—Naerya, sixteen, wiry and quick, her hands as fast with a blade as they had once been with a stolen coin purse. She’d tried to pick Mors’s pocket years ago. Instead of losing the hand, she’d been given a chance. Now she trained with the same fierce determination as the rest.

A mismatched band of killers, thieves, knights, and survivors—but every one of them was loyal to Mors to the bone.

Qerrin let the waterskin drop to his side, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The future looked bright.

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The Citadel, Early 276 ACPOV IV: Oberyn Martell

Oberyn closed the heavy tome with a quiet thump, dust motes swirling in the shaft of morning light. Since arriving at the Citadel, his studies had been… eclectic. Healing, poisons, governance, warfare, the occasional foray into magic—and, out of curiosity, a few darker arts the Archmaesters would rather pretend didn’t exist.

He slid the book back onto the shelf and turned toward the door, only to be halted by a drawling, mocking voice from across the hall.

“Well, if it isn’t the Red Viper, catching up on your poison lessons. I don’t know how they allow… people like you in here. This used to be a noble institution of learning. With you, it feels more like a whorehouse.”

Oberyn turned slowly, his most dazzling smile already in place. “Oh, if it isn’t Tiny. Was that jealousy I heard in your voice? I didn’t sleep with your mother… or your father, did I?”

He closed the distance in two easy strides, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. The Reachman stiffened as if a great weight had suddenly pressed down on him.

“Tiny,” Oberyn said softly, leaning in, “I don’t know what gave you the impression you could approach this prince so casually. But if you insist on calling me the Red Viper, you should know that with just a touch—like the one I have on you now—you could be dead in moments. I don’t know you, I don’t care for you, but from now on… you are Tiny. And I promise, I’ll have a great deal of fun with you.”

He released the man with a charming smile. The noble stumbled backward, landing hard before scrambling away in a panic, pale and wide-eyed. Oberyn watched him go, amused, then stepped out into the courtyard.

Two guards fell in step behind him without a word. Once they were far enough from prying ears, Oberyn spoke without looking back.“What did you find out?”

“My prince, the trail went cold. But we can confirm that one of the Archmaesters had contact with the messenger linked to former Maester Orthar. We couldn’t get a physical description.”

Oberyn’s expression cooled. “Hmm. Narrowed down, then…” The serious look faded into his signature grin. “Well done. Keep digging. If we can’t find the one responsible, the Citadel may need a… fresh batch of Archmaesters. I’d like to avoid an unnecessary massacre, of course.”

‘No one tries to assassinate my younger brother without consequences.’

“Yes, my prince.”

“Good.” His smile turned wicked. “Now, I believe that tomboy courtesan from the other day is expecting me—and she’s far too much fun to neglect.”

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Lannisport – Tourney Grounds, Early 276 ACPOV V : Cersei Lannister

The stands roared as the two great destriers thundered down the list. Cersei Lannister leaned forward in her seat, golden hair catching the sunlight, her green eyes fixed on the final tilt between Prince Mors Martell and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

Two princes—two visions of nobility—bearing down upon each other like figures from a song. Rhaegar, all silver hair and solemn grace, his presence regal and untouchable. Mors, taller, broader, his long platinum hair tied back in a warrior’s tail, his very posture radiating command. Even from here, she could feel it—that overwhelming presence that seemed to make every other man seem lesser.

Rhaegar had played his harp for her on the first day of the tourney. She knew it had been for her. How could it not be? She was to be his queen. It was a shame about Mors, really. She still remembered the smile he had given her when he visited Lannisport three years ago, during that courtship tour. He had wanted her—she was sure of it. But Father had rejected the match. Pity. She would have made a fine princess of Dorne. At least she would be Queen instead.

Perhaps she should speak to that witch she had heard whispers about in the hills beyond the city. It would be wise to know what the future held… what she must prepare for.

Her thoughts broke as the clash came—lances splintering with a thunderous crack. Gasps swept through the stands as Rhaegar was unhorsed, his black armor flashing as he struck the sand. Mors wheeled his destrier about, dismounted in one smooth motion, and offered his cousin a hand. Together, they walked to the center of the lists, Mors raising Rhaegar’s hand as well as his own. A shared triumph.

Cersei’s breath caught. ‘Such nobility. Such command.’ She all but swooned at the sight of them together.

Beside her, Jaime crossed his arms, muttering, “One day, I’ll beat them both.”

She smiled at him, proud and confident. “It might be difficult, but if anyone can do it, it’s a Lion of the Rock.”

Her uncle Kevan, seated to her left, nodded approvingly at the display in the lists. Cersei barely noticed—her gaze had already shifted to the crowd of nobles in attendance. There was Lord Mace Tyrell with his Hightower wife, Alerie, dabbing at her lips while her husband stuffed himself until the front of his fine doublet bore the evidence. Ugh. Disgusting. Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale sat stiffly among his knights, his eyes lingering too long on the younger maidens—like the way Jaime looked at fine blades in the armory. Farther down, the Tully brother they called the Blackfish, his expression as cold and unreadable as stone.

One day, they would all bow to her.

A ripple of noise drew her attention back to the field. Mors was accepting his laurel—and placing it into the hands of… her.

Cersei’s lips parted. “Who is she?” she hissed, her voice sharp. Heat rose in her chest. “Has he moved on so quickly? This is unacceptable.” She straightened in her seat, chin high, eyes narrowing. “I’ll speak to Father about this.”

Her gaze locked on the girl, committing every feature to memory.

“I need to know who she is.”

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Myr, Mid 276 AC

POV VI: ?

The chamber reeked of spilt wine, sweat, and the acrid tang of oil lamps burning too low. A half-dozen Myrish nobles lay sprawled across couches and carpets, their flushed faces slack, mouths half-open in drunken stupor. To the untrained eye, it was a scene of overindulgence. To anyone who knew better, the faintly sweet scent in the air told another truth—something more than wine had been in their cups.

A tall, striking woman with sun-browned skin and dark hair streaked with early silver moved among them in silence. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her beauty edged with something harder, colder. The silk of her gown hung askew, a calculated disarray that matched the others in the room. Beneath the loosened fabric, faint marks and smears hinted at what these men had bought with their coin.

She knelt beside a slumped merchant prince and drew a narrow blade from her sleeve. Without hesitation, she slid it across his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. Warm blood spread into the wine-stained cushions. Around the room, four other women did the same, each striking with the quiet efficiency of those long past fear.

One of them—barely more than a girl—didn’t stop at the first stroke. She straddled a greasy, thick-necked noble and drove her dagger into him again and again, each thrust punctuated by ragged sobs.“Disgusting bastard… monster… fiend…”

The Dornish woman watched, a flicker of pity crossing her features. But pity was a luxury she had burned out of herself years ago. All that remained was the iron weight of revenge.

Another merchant died beneath her hand before she turned toward the desk at the far wall. Papers lay scattered across it. She scanned them, and her lips parted slightly.“…Improved formulas for the creation of glass.”

The names on the documents matched the men bleeding out behind her. The heads of one of Myr’s largest glass-making syndicates—the same who had bought her as damaged goods three years ago. The same who had thought they could break her.

She slipped the documents into a leather satchel while behind her, the others continued their work. Some killed in silence, others wept as they stabbed, venting years of humiliation and grief in one blood-soaked hour.

‘I need to get this to Loreza…’

She paused at the door, glancing back once—not at the corpses, but at the women standing over them.“Manfrey… wait for me just a little longer. I still need to avenge your father… even if it costs me my life. I’m not the same woman I was.”

She tightened her grip on the satchel. “I may not be a Martell… but I am still Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Until the end—until it burns.”

Chapter Text

Sunspear, Mid–276 ACOne Week After the Pirate Raid

The docks still smelled of pitch and salt. Cleanup from the battle was done, but the evidence of it lingered—ships in various states of repair, captured pirate vessels moored alongside the Dornish fleet. If even half of these could be integrated, Dorne’s navy would stand at four times its size from just five years ago.

Mors had cut short his training when word came that Doran had returned from the Lannisport tourney. When he entered the solar, it was full—Doran, Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, Mellario, Jeremy, Lewyn, Manfrey, Bedwyck, and, surprisingly, Oberyn. Oberyn was hugging Loreza; Doran and Mellario were in an embrace of their own.

“Oberyn! You’re back!” Mors crossed the room in two strides and pulled him into a strong hug.

“Of course,” Oberyn said with a grin. “Had to swing by once I heard what happened. Fortunately, Doran stopped in Oldtown, so I caught a ride. Bold work against those pirates.”

Mors offered a smile to Elia, Ashara and Alyssa as in sat down.

They returned it in kind—Elia with quiet pride, Alyssa with a nod of approval, and Ashara with a look that lingered just a moment too long. She seemed on the verge of speaking, but held her tongue, saving it for later.

‘They must have heard about what happened,’ Mors thought..

As everyone began to sit, Mors’s smile dimmed. Loreza moved slowly with a walking stick; the arrow wound in her thigh was still bandaged, the cloth faintly spotted with blood.

She took the high-backed chair at the head of the solar, pride in her eyes as she looked over those gathered. Her gaze settled last on Mors, warm with gratitude.

“I’m glad to see you all here—safe, sound. This is the family, blood and sworn, that is the bedrock of our strength,” she said. A pause, then: “To think a simple moment of negligence while we were focused inward nearly became one of the greatest tragedies in our history…” She exhaled heavily. “It makes me wonder if I’m still fit to lead.”

“Nonsense, Mother,” Doran said firmly. “We all gave counsel, and none of us caught this. If there was failure, it was our overconfidence. We’ll correct it. More importantly, we came out ahead. But these pirates have become too much of a nuisance—something must be done.”

“I agree,” Mors said. “From the start, I thought we should act. And now… I say we finish what we began. Cleanse the Stepstones—at least the lower isles. The traitors we caught were certain they’d crush us before reinforcements arrived. Instead, we hit them so hard it may take years for them to recover.”

Lewyn chuckled. “Not one ship escaped our net. Satisfying. But Mors, as much as I’d like to burn the Stepstones clean, we didn’t go further last time for a reason.”

Doran nodded. “We couldn’t afford to alienate the Crown. And… certain internal matters complicated things.” His glance flicked toward Oberyn.

Oberyn smirked. “What’s there to worry about? Go in, raze the place to the ground, and leave before anyone notices. We’d be doing them a favor—they’re probably miserable anyway.”

Manfrey smiled faintly, a rare sight. “As Oberynish as that sounds… I could get behind it.”

Loreza rubbed her brow. “Enough. Mors wouldn’t bring this up without reason. What’s changed?”

Mors smiled. “Well, as you know, you’re looking at the Champion of the Lannisport tourney.”

Elia smirked. “As nice as the prize must have been, I doubt it’s enough to bribe the Crown into letting us do what we want.”

Ashara and Alyssa exchanged a proud glance; the image of Mors’s victory was still fresh in their minds.

He chuckled. “I’ll remember that tactic for next time. No—after the tourney, King Aerys granted me… a boon.”

The weight of that word settled over the room.

“I doubt we could push it too far,” Mors continued, “but perhaps we could use it to expand—or at least secure an outpost in the Stepstones to contain pirate activity. Even the small council might approve if it’s framed as a benefit to the realm.”

Loreza leaned forward, considering. Doran’s eyes gleamed with the possibilities. All eyes shifted to her.

“…This is doable,” she said at last. “Knowing Aerys, he might only trust you, Mors, to lead it. That could keep you away from Sunspear for long periods. Are you willing?”

“Without a doubt, Mother. I live to serve Dorne.”

Loreza sighed but smiled. She glanced over the others, then murmured so softly only Mors caught it: “I wish you all didn’t have to sacrifice so much for Dorne…” Then, louder: “Very well. Doran, send a raven to the King. Lewyn, prepare the forces and sweep up any stragglers. Mors, work with Lewyn to pick the best site for an outpost, if approved. If not… nothing lost. Dismissed.”

As the room emptied, Mors stopped Doran. “Wait—I need to speak with you and Mother.”

Oberyn, Manfrey, and Bedwyck paused at the door. “Don’t keep us waiting long,” Oberyn called. Elia left with Mellario, Alyssa, and Ashara in tow. Areo followed silently. Lewyn headed off to muster his men.

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A Moment later

When the solar was quiet, Mors said, “You’ve probably guessed it by now. My powers are still… changing. I think I now have dragon dreams.”

Loreza and Doran exchanged a grave look. Loreza spoke slowly. “I never thought I’d see this… and from my own son.”

Doran’s voice was careful. “Have you seen anything else?”

“Not as clear as before,” Mors admitted. “But I know chaos is coming—a rebellion. It will touch most, if not all, the kingdoms. After meeting Aerys, I’m certain he’s not entirely sane. His behavior is more erratic than the rumors suggest.”

“That makes sense,” Loreza said quietly. “If the King is unstable, the court will hide it to protect the Crown.”

“There’s more,” Mors said after a pause. “After meeting Rhaegar… I sensed the same madness in him. Controlled, but there. Obsession. Jealousy. A hunger to be revered. Dangerous traits in a prince. The way he looked at Elia and Ashara wasn’t normal. Arthur Dayne warned me in confidence. We should avoid a royal match at all costs.”

The air seemed to thicken. Loreza searched his face. “…You’re certain?”

“I am.”

“Then we will abandon the plan,” she said, her voice quieter now, though her shoulders seemed to lose some of their proud set.

“I’ve had doubts too,” Doran admitted. “But there’s another problem—Elia is smitten with Rhaegar. And publicly, he seems to return the feeling.”

“Wasn’t there talk of Tywin Lannister arranging a betrothal between his daughter and Rhaegar?” Mors asked.

Doran grimaced. “Just before we left, I overheard Aerys berating Tywin for thinking he could marry his son to a ‘simple servant.’ It… escalated.”

“Oh,” Mors said, recalling Aerys’s earlier interest in marrying him to a nonexistent daughter.

Loreza steered them back. “Mors—any sense when this chaos will begin?”

He shook his head. “No. Only that the Crown will be the source, and we must steer clear.”

“…Understood.” Loreza’s voice carried finality. “Go now—Oberyn won’t be here long. Spend time with him.”

Mors smiled faintly. “Gladly.”

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The docks of Planky Town bustled with life—ships unloading crates of timber and stone, nets dripping with the morning’s catch, children darting between workers with baskets of bread. Mors walked with Oberyn, Manfrey, and Bedwyck at the head of their small party, with Jeremy, Idrin, Tahlor, and a few other Eclipse Guard members following close behind. The air smelled of salt, pitch, and the faint perfume of spice from a merchant barge recently arrived from Volantis.

They had been moving through the town for over an hour, helping with small tasks and greeting locals. Mors paused more than once to haul a crate for an older dockworker or offer a brief word to the town’s foreman about the reconstruction progress. The people seemed to brighten at their presence, and even the most harried laborers stopped to salute or call out blessings.

It was midway down a busy street that Oberyn suddenly glanced over his shoulder toward Idrin, his expression shifting from casual to keen.“So, Idrin… how’s your sister these days? I trust she’s still running the finest establishment in town? More importantly… is she available?”

Idrin, unfazed—as if being the brother of a famed courtesan-turned-madam was the most normal thing in the world—nodded easily.“She’s been busy with reconstruction, but she’s back now. And yes, if you’d like, we can see if she’s available. Last time we spoke, she mentioned she’s brought in a few new girls.”

Oberyn’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, perfect. Let’s go.”

Mors stopped in his tracks. “Well… in that case, I’ll see you all later.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Oberyn said, spinning back to hook an arm around him. “Manfrey—help me out here. This guy’s gotten even more monstrous since the last time we tried to drag him along.”

Manfrey, already grinning, stepped forward to assist. “Gladly.”

Mors resisted half-heartedly. “No, really, I don’t have time for this. I haven’t even bathed—I’m filthy from training—”

Idrin ‘helpfully’ added, “No worries. There are baths at the house.”

Mors gave him a flat look. ‘Et tu, Idrin?’

Even Jeremy stepped in now, his tone maddeningly calm. “My prince… waiting too long to learn certain… skills… can be detrimental to one’s development.”

Mors groaned. “What—you too, Jeremy??”

Jeremy’s smile broadened. “Absolutely.”

Minutes later, the group reached a grand timber building overlooking the bay. Lanterns swayed gently in the sea breeze, casting warm light over polished wooden doors. Inside, soft music played over the low murmur of conversation and laughter.

They were ushered into a private salon almost immediately, drinks placed in their hands as silken-clad attendants moved about. The moment the double doors at the far end opened, conversation paused.

Syrana Qho entered with the grace of someone who commanded the room without needing to raise her voice. Her hair was dark and sleek, her gown a masterwork of emerald and gold that set off her sun-kissed skin. Beauty clung to her like perfume—but so did authority.

“Prince Oberyn—always a pleasure,” Syrana purred, her smile warm but edged with mischief. Then her gaze slid to Mors, lingering a heartbeat too long. Surprise flickered there, followed by something keener—intrigue. “And the famed Sun of Dorne… in my humble house. Now that is an honor I didn’t expect.”

Oberyn stepped forward, all charm wrapped in mischief. “Syrana, my dear, I hear you’ve been keeping some new treasures all to yourself. I’ve come to meet them… and to see that our late-blooming prince here finally graduates from his—” he paused, letting the grin sharpen, “—endless studies.”

Syrana’s brows arched ever so slightly. “Is that so?” Her smile deepened, slow and knowing. “Well… that is an honor I would not trust to anyone else.”

She approached Mors, her eyes never leaving his. “Come, my prince. Let’s give you the full VIP package. We’ll start with a proper meal—can’t have you fainting on me—then a bath… a massage… and…” She let the sentence trail off with a look that made Oberyn’s grin widen.

Her hand was already at his arm, guiding him toward the corridor beyond. The soft notes of a harp drifted from somewhere deeper inside the house, mingling with the scent of spiced wine and roasted lamb from the kitchens.

Mors exhaled, resigning himself to the inevitable. His eyes moved from Oberyn, Manfrey, and Bedwyck—already well on their way to getting acquainted with a few of the ladies—to Jeremy, who lingered near the entrance with the air of a proud father before stepping outside to keep watch over the perimeter.

Behind him, the door closed, muffling the sounds of the common room. Somewhere ahead, the light dimmed, the air warmed, and Syrana’s voice dropped to a silky murmur. “Come, Prince Mors… the day is still young.”

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The evening glow bled through the sheer curtains, painting the room in shades of amber and rose. Syrana lay sprawled across the bed, hair tangled, skin faintly flushed, her breathing slow and heavy. She looked utterly spent—less the victorious seductress she had intended to be, and more the defeated challenger.

Mors stood by the bedside, fastening the last clasp of his tunic. He glanced down at her, violet eyes narrowing with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk—a look that said without words: That’s what you get for thinking you could dominate me.

Without another word, he turned and left the room. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood clung faintly to him as he stepped into the hall. There was a noticeable ease in his stride, a looseness in his frame.

'Hmph… I feel like I’ve just taken a weight off my shoulders. I’m not making a habit of this… but maybe I should loosen up a bit more often.'

He descended the stairs, offering nods to a few attendants, before stepping out into the cool sea air—ready to face the night with an unfamiliar, yet satisfying, lightness.

Jeremy fell into step beside him without a word, as seamless as ever, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Congratulations, my prince.”

Mors glanced back at him with a wry smile. “Thanks… I suppose. Let’s not make a habit of this.”

“Of course, my prince. But, given the… track record of your siblings—and her brothers—your mother had begun to worry for you. This will put her at ease.”

Mors chuckled under his breath. “Mother… yes, that makes sense.”

The night was beautiful and calm, the sea whispering against the docks. Lantern light danced on the water as they made their way back toward Sunspear, the air carrying the scent of salt and the promise of quiet.