Lannisport - Day Three of Tourney – Early Morning
The sun had barely begun its climb, casting long, golden rays over the private Martell training yard just outside their tents. A circle of sand had been cleared and raked smooth, flanked by Dornish guards in light armor standing at attention along the perimeter. No spectators were permitted beyond the line. This session was for family only.
Prince Doran stood with Elia and Ser Jeremy beneath a shaded canopy, each holding a cup of morning tea. Elia watched with quiet interest, her gaze flicking between the three figures in the sparring ring. Jeremy stood with arms crossed, lips twitching in faint amusement as he watched Mors stretch lightly, spear in hand.
Across from him stood Ashara Dayne and Alyssa Uller. Ashara's violet eyes burned with challenge, her midnight-black hair tied back, twin swords drawn. Beside her, Alyssa gripped a training spear, her stance grounded and efficient—like a coiled spring. Both women were dangerous in their own right, trained by masters and tempered by hardship.
But this morning, they faced something else entirely.
Mors.
The duel began without a signal. Mors moved first—with fluid, unhurried grace. He stepped in and out of their range as if the ground answered only to him. When Alyssa lunged, he sidestepped with ease, catching her shaft with the butt of his own spear and twisting it from her grip. A second later, Ashara came in from the flank—fast, elegant, blades sweeping low and high.
Mors bent, spun, and vaulted clean over her—landing behind both women before they'd even reset.
"Quicker recovery, Ashara," he called mid-motion. "Don't commit with both hands when you're off-balance."
Ashara hissed under her breath and whirled, striking again. This time, she moved in sync with Alyssa, who had already recovered her spear and came from the opposite side. Steel clashed. Dust rose. Jeremy raised an eyebrow, impressed.
For the next five minutes, the rhythm turned fierce.
Ashara's twin blades danced like silver threads. Alyssa struck with crisp precision, her spear jabbing low before hooking up. Mors countered with seamless grace—parrying, sweeping, disarming. He moved like a storm with a center—always in control, always one step ahead. He ducked beneath a sword slash, rolled forward, and popped up behind them again.
When Alyssa lunged hard, Mors let her pass—then caught her arm gently mid-spin, redirecting her momentum. For a moment, his hand held her steady—firm, but careful.
Alyssa's breath caught. A faint blush touched her cheeks before she composed herself and pulled back into position. Mors tapped her back lightly with the flat of his spear.
"Good aggression," he said quietly. "But tighten your core on the follow-through."
Doran, watching from beneath the canopy, gave Elia a glance.
"Was that what I think it was?"
Elia smirked into her teacup.
"Hmm. I do believe Alyssa appreciates Mors more than most. But she's far too stubborn and serious to act on it."
"Oh," Doran murmured amusedly, returning his gaze to the ring.
Ashara's cheeks flushed with exertion, her eyes narrowing. She charged again—faster this time—feinting high before sweeping low. Mors flipped over her cleanly, landed just behind her blade, and this time didn't strike. He simply placed his spear at her throat.
She froze.
Breathing hard, she smiled despite herself.
"Show-off," she muttered.
"I'm Dornish," Mors replied, lowering the weapon with a faint grin. "And I'm a prince. A bit here and there should be acceptable."
"Enough for now," Doran called from the sideline. "You have a joust to win."
Mors bowed and stepped back, offering both women a hand. They rose together, breathing heavily but uninjured—only tested.
Elia looked to Jeremy, a quiet question in her eyes.
Jeremy nodded. "They're not bad," he said. "But he's something else."
And he was.
Effortless. Fast. Precise. Tireless.
As Mors wiped the sweat from his brow and set his spear aside, the others began to gather their things. Elia glanced toward the training yard, wistful.
"I wish I could fight like Ashara or Alyssa," she said softly. "My body's too weak."
Doran sighed at that, shaking his head. But Mors only laughed.
"Please," he said, walking over. "The gods had to balance you out somehow. If you were this beautiful, smart, and strong? The world would end."
Elia laughed and stepped back quickly as he moved in.
"No! Don't come near me with all that sweat—I just bathed!"
He lunged toward her in jest, arms outstretched, and she dodged him with a squeal of laughter. Even Doran allowed himself a faint smile.
And for a moment—before the weight of crowns, courts, and jousts—there was only family, and the warmth of a morning well spent.
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The tourney field had shifted overnight.
What was a ceremonial bluff two days prior had become a battleground. The tilt had been cleared and re-packed, sand leveled, banners adjusted. Wooden viewing stands curved around the lists, shaded by linen and gold-threaded cloth. Lords and ladies filtered in by midmorning, their voices low with anticipation.
Arthur Dayne entered the lists before noon.
The crowd stirred the moment he appeared—silver cloak trailing behind, white armor polished to a sunblind gleam. The sword at his side wasn't Dawn, not today. His jousting lance was simple, marked only with the seven-pointed star of the Kingsguard. The Dayne standard waved above the viewing gallery, just beside the Targaryen dragon.
Mors watched from his tent near the eastern end, seated beside Jeremy and Idrin.
Arthur faced a knight from House Tarly. Well-built, older, solid in the saddle. It didn't matter.
On the first pass, Arthur struck clean—center mass. The force of the hit sent the knight spinning backward, unhorsed before he hit the ground. He landed hard, groaning in the sand.
The crowd roared.
Arthur didn't raise his hand. He simply rode the length of the tilt, calm and unbothered, and dismounted with precision.
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Mors's first bout came an hour later, against Ser Rickard Rowen of the Reach—a tall, broad man with a chest like a barrel and arms thick as oak limbs. He rode a heavy destrier and held his lance low, like a battering ram about to break down a gate.
Mors sat motionless atop his sand-steed, breath slow and steady. His helm was plain—black and red, without plume. Only the sun-and-spear on his breastplate marked his rank.
He shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting for the wind and a subtle lean in the ground.
The horns sounded.
Ser Rickard charged hard, lance level. Mors met him clean—angled just right. His own strike hit below the shoulder, firm and controlled. The jolt rippled through his wrist, but he held steady. Rickard teetered, lost his seat, and crashed sideways into the dirt.
Not elegant. But decisive.
Mors glanced back once, saw the knight rising with the help of a squire, and gave a short nod before riding on.
As he neared the edge of the lists, he turned to salute the crowd. His eyes found Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, and Doran seated together in the stands.
He offered a small nod and wave.
Elia and Ashara smiled brightly, waving in return.
Alyssa's smile was there too—restrained, fleeting—as if she wanted to wave but held herself back at the last moment.
Doran met Mors's eyes and gave a single, proud nod.
It was all brief. But Mors caught every part of it.
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Jorah Mormont's bout followed.
He faced a young Lannister squire with more polish than experience. The squire held his lance properly, leaned low, and even made a clean pass.
It didn't matter.
Jorah's strength was brute-force. His strike shattered the squire's shield and tossed him backward like a sack of flour. The sound of the impact rang louder than the cheers.
From his viewing seat, Mors nodded once. 'Unrefined, but dangerous.'
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Rhaegar Targaryen glided through his round.
He rode as if the field belonged to him—controlled, flawless, untouchable. Every pass was precise. His lance struck true, his balance never shifted. His silver-and-black armor gleamed without a speck of dust, as if it had been polished mid-charge.
He unseated his opponent cleanly on the second tilt, then circled back with quiet composure. At the end of the lane, he offered the fallen knight a charming smile—humble, even in victory.
The crowd erupted, fully enraptured by the grace and presence of their crown prince.
Reining in at the far end, Rhaegar removed his helm, his silver hair catching the light. He gave the crowd a single, elegant wave. Then his gaze caught Mors.
The smile he offered was brilliant. But it held edge. Less warmth—more challenge.
He turned, dismounted, and disappeared into his tent, squire trailing behind.
Mors watched him go.
'Always so composed. Even his victories feel… rehearsed.'
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After several bouts, the field narrowed quickly.
Ser Barristan Selmy unseated a Royce knight with surgical precision—two passes, both clean hits. The Royce heir landed hard on the second tilt. Barristan dismounted, helped the man up, and said nothing more.
Match after match passed, with highlights from Ser Gawen Swann of the Stormlands and Ser Denys Arryn of the Vale. If Mors recalled the intelligence correctly, Denys was being quietly groomed as a possible heir to the Eyrie.
When Jon Connington claimed victory over a knight from the Riverlands, he cast a long look toward Mors—challenging, almost hostile.
Mors raised an eyebrow.
'I wonder what that's about.'
Then he watched Connington stride over to Rhaegar's side, standing just behind the prince like a loyal hound.
'Ah. I see.'
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As the sun dipped low behind the hills, Mors, Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, Doran, and their retinue made their way back toward the Martell tents. The day's matches had been long—over thirty bouts—but the group moved with an energy that lingered just beneath their fatigue.
Ashara practically bounced with excitement, speaking animatedly beside Elia, who leaned slightly on Alyssa for support.
"Did you see how manly Mors looked when he unhorsed Ser Rickard Rowen? That was amazing! If I remember right, he's the younger brother of the Lord of Goldengrove. Very influential in the Northmarch, and a skilled jouster—but Mors made it look easy!" She paused only to breathe before continuing. "Arthur was amazing too, of course. As expected—from the brother I trained!"
Elia chuckled, amused by Ashara's energy. "Yes, that was impressive. But I expected no less from my sunny brother." She gave Mors a look, then added with a teasing smile, "And the brother you trained has been exceptional since before he earned his white blade."
Mors shook his head slightly, smiling but staying silent.
Elia turned thoughtful. "What truly surprised me was how exceptional Prince Rhaegar was. Everything about him—his posture, the way he rode—it was so… regal. Like he wasn't tilting, but gliding. It was…" she trailed off, searching.
"Like poetry in motion?" Mors offered, brow raised.
"Yes!" Elia said, lighting up. "Exactly that."
Mors's smile dimmed slightly. He cast a glance at Doran, who met it with quiet amusement.
He turned back to Elia. "That sounded like more than a compliment on his form. Anything you'd like to add, dear sister?"
"You just don't appreciate it like I do," Elia replied, unbothered. "He was captivating."
Mors forced a thin smile. 'Captivating already, is he?' he thought—but said instead, "He's more skilled than I expected. I look forward to testing that myself."
"You won't be disappointed," Elia said.
"I'd better not be," Mors replied, then glanced toward Ashara with a chuckle. "And after thirty-two tilts, I'm amazed you still have the energy to talk this much."
Ashara scoffed. "Please. It takes more than that to wear me down."
Mors smirked. "Of course. It would take much more to slow down the legendary Lady Ashara Dayne."
"Exactly," she said, flipping her hair dramatically. "Just look how well you performed after training with me this morning."
His mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dream of denying it."
He looked to Alyssa, walking just behind Elia. "And what did you think of the matches, Alyssa?"
Alyssa looked up, slightly startled, her eyes locking with his. She froze for a second.
"Alyssa?" Mors asked again, curious.
"Oh? Oh!" she blinked, then straightened with a slight blush. "Apologies. Most jousts were technically sound. I'm no expert, but I counted nine or ten who could reach the final rounds—provided they don't face each other too early." She hesitated, then added, "That includes you… my prince."
Mors gave her a warm nod, but said nothing more.
The group continued toward the tents, the sound of distant laughter and clanking armor still drifting on the breeze. The day had been long—but the real tests were still ahead.