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.