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. Ican traine 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.