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."
–––––––––––––––––
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.