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.'
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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.'