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.
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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."
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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.
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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.