Lannisport – Day Five of the Tourney – Morning
The sun rose over Lannisport with regal brilliance, gilding the stone ramparts and fluttering banners in warm gold. The harbor murmured with the creak of rigging and gull cries, but the true storm was forming at the tourney grounds. Today, the morning melee would unleash chaos and steel, and by afternoon, the semifinals and final tilt would decide the champion of the lists.
The previous day had seen twenty-eight matches, culminating in a tightly fought quarterfinal round. Rhaegar Targaryen had faced Jon Connington, and while the match drew thunderous applause, it felt more like theater than competition. Rhaegar's victory was clean—graceful even—but to Mors, it seemed that Jon had pulled back. The look Connington gave him afterward—tense, regretful—spoke volumes. He had wanted to face Mors himself.
Mors Martell had endured a punishing match against Ser Jorah Mormont. The man rode like a battering ram, his strength legendary, more bear than knight. It took everything Mors had—exceptional balance, timing, and a subtle strength boost—to unhorse him. Afterward, he'd saluted Jorah with genuine respect.
Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gawen Swann—both Stormlanders—tilted with clean honor. Selmy's precision proved superior, sending Gawen crashing to the ground on the second pass. Yet Gawen had impressed many with his strong showing throughout the tourney, despite an earlier incident where he had accidentally crippled a knight of the Reach. The man would survive, but likely never walk again—a sobering reminder that these games carried real consequences.
The final bout of the day was the most thrilling: Ser Arthur Dayne versus Ser Denys Arryn. They shattered six lances between them in a duel of supreme skill and control. In the end, Arthur edged ahead on points, earning the win. Denys accepted the result with grace and honor, congratulating Arthur and even inviting him to spar in the future. Mors had known little of Denys before, but now he suspected that if the Vale named him heir, they would be in capable hands.
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Mors Martell stood beside Doran and Elia in the royal viewing box, armored now in light flexible plate over Martell crimson. Ashara and Alyssa flanked Elia, while Martell guards held the perimeter. The stands thrummed with anticipation. Seventy-five men had signed up for the melee—a mix of knights, squires, and hedge fighters. Among them, seven bore the sun-and-spear.
"I see Jeremy and Idrin down there," Doran said, nodding toward the field. "Ah—there's Tahlor as well."
Mors spotted them adjusting helms and strapping gauntlets. Jeremy stood nearby, speaking calmly to a Dornishman with twin daggers at his waist. All seven Dornish fighters were spaced apart, but Mors could feel the undercurrent of unity.
He tightened the strap of his gauntlet and nodded once to Doran. "Time to stretch the legs."
Without ceremony, he descended from the box and strode onto the field.
The moment the crowd spotted the Prince of Dorne joining the melee, a wave of murmurs swept through the stands. His entry tilted the odds. Most had expected him to sit this one out.
The horn blew. The gates opened.
Seventy-five fighters surged forward.
The opening minutes were chaos. Steel met steel, sand erupted under boots, men shouted, roared, cursed, and fell. Mors moved like water through fire—reading momentum, stepping out of range, striking only when it mattered. He disarmed a knight with a twist, downed a sellsword with the butt of his spear, and vaulted over a two-man scuffle to land behind a Reachman, tapping him out with a sweeping kick.
Nearby, Idrin and Tahlor fought back to back with ruthless harmony. Jeremy, further across the field, disabled men with calm efficiency, never wasting a step. Their coordination turned the melee into something else—less a brawl, more a demonstration.
From the royal box, Elia rose to her feet.
"He's not even trying yet," she murmured.
"He's… amazing," Alyssa added softly, almost to herself.
Ashara caught the words despite the low volume. Smiling slyly, she slipped an arm around Alyssa's like a sister claiming credit.
"Of course he is. I raised that boy myself."
Alyssa blushed, realizing she'd spoken aloud.
Elia chuckled, clearly amused by the moment.
Mors's attention snapped toward a flash of silver and a shout of warning.
Brandon Stark—reckless as ever—was charging a man twice his size, broadsword high. The Westerlander sidestepped and raised a mace to counter. Mors was there before it landed, deflecting the strike with his forearm plate and sweeping the attacker off his feet with a spinning leg-hook.
Brandon looked up, stunned.
"Stay focused. Stay alive. This isn't a game," Mors said simply, then turned away.
A short while later, the crowd stirred. Jon Connington had entered the field late.
Mors spotted him immediately—and caught the briefest glance exchanged between Jon and Rhaegar in the stands.
'So that's the game.'
Jon made his way toward Mors like it was fate. For a moment, they circled. Then blades met. Jon fought with fury—technically sharp, but emotionally wild. Mors parried, deflected, countered. But just as he disarmed Jon's main hand, three others lunged at him from the blind side.
A trap.
The crowd gasped.
Mors stopped holding back.
He spun low, slammed one with a shoulder-check that cracked ribs, flipped the second with a leg sweep, and slammed the pommel of his spear into Jon's arm with a bone-jarring crunch. Jon staggered back, clutching his wrist, rage turning to agony.
The last attacker froze mid-charge—and wisely backed away.
Mors stood tall, breathing calm. The arena had gone quiet.
Then he turned and walked away.
He continued to fight for a few more minutes, supporting his own in critical moments, but when the final circle formed, he yielded.
Jeremy, Idrin, Tahlor, and three others stood among the last. Mors gave Jeremy a knowing nod, then stepped outside the bounds.
From the viewing box, Elia's eyes shimmered with pride. Doran simply crossed his arms.
"He could have won," Ashara said.
"He didn't need to," Doran answered. "This wasn't about that."
And from the ground, as the crowd buzzed with what they'd just witnessed, Mors simply wiped sweat from his brow and returned to his family—his message made. The semifinals awaited.
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Lannisport — Day Five of the Tourney — Afternoon
The sun stood high over the tournament grounds, its heat tempered only by the salty breeze rolling in from the harbor. The stands were packed to bursting—lords, ladies, knights, and commonfolk all pressed forward in anticipation, their murmurs rising like the tide with every movement near the lists. At the front, beneath a canopy of gold and red, sat King Aerys himself, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, seated at his right.
Only four knights remained. Four names that stirred whispers across the realm:
Mors Martell. Rhaegar Targaryen. Arthur Dayne. Barristan Selmy.
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Semifinal I — Mors Martell vs. Ser Barristan Selmy
The moment Mors rode onto the field, the air changed. Opposite him, Ser Barristan Selmy waited in pristine white, his silver-plated helm reflecting the sun.
Both men saluted. Horns blew.
The first pass was thunder.
Wood shattered on contact—both lances splintered, both knights held. The crowd roared.
Second pass—another clash, with neither giving ground.
Third—Barristan struck true, but Mors adjusted mid-pass and countered with shocking precision. Another draw.
The fourth and fifth tilts continued in kind—technical brilliance, iron will, and unspoken respect. Neither yielded, and each tilt left the crowd breathless.
Only on the sixth pass did Mors shift—just slightly—allowing himself a subtle aura boost, no more than a whisper of power. It was enough. His lance struck under Barristan's shoulder, jolting him just enough to tip balance. Barristan held—barely—but yielded, raising a hand before dismounting.
Mors immediately removed his helm and rode to him. He dismounted in turn and bowed deeply.
Ser Barristan offered his hand.
"That," he said, breath calm but eyes alight, "was the best match I've had in years."
"And an honor I won't forget," Mors replied.
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Semifinal II — Prince Rhaegar Targaryen vs. Ser Arthur Dayne
The crowd held its breath, eyes fixed on the two figures at either end of the lists.
On one side, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat his steed with practiced elegance—silver hair gleaming beneath the sun, black armor polished to a mirror sheen. Every motion was deliberate, princely.
Opposite him, Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, towered in pale silver armor. His white Kingsguard cloak trailed behind him like a banner of silence. Composed. Imposing. Revered.
They rode.
First pass—clean, textbook strikes. Lances shattered like kindling.
Second—closer, heavier. No clear edge.
Third—Arthur leaned in, his lance a spear of precision. Rhaegar reeled but held.
Then came the fourth.
Rhaegar adjusted. A subtle shift—unorthodox, slightly wild. Uncharacteristic.
It worked.
His lance struck beneath Arthur's pauldron with just enough force to stagger the white knight's horse. Not a fall—but enough. The tally favored the prince.
Arthur circled back, dismounted, and approached with a lopsided grin. He gave a formal bow, then added, "You've improved, my prince. I was certain I had you."
Rhaegar returned the smile—but it flickered at the edges, more polite than pleased.
"You clearly held back. I've still much to learn."
Arthur smirked. "Don't know what you mean."
The crowd roared, the tension easing into cheers. They had their final.
Prince versus Prince.
Sun versus Dragon.
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The Final — Mors Martell vs. Rhaegar Targaryen
They rode out under a sky blazing gold.
Mors studied his opponent with calm detachment. He could feel it already—Rhaegar was good. Polished. Strategic.
But he wasn't better.
Mors was faster. Stronger. Sharper.
He could win this in a single pass. But he chose not to.
Instead, he gave them a show.
Two tilts. Then three. The fourth, he let Rhaegar land a partial blow. The fifth, he struck clean—but pulled the power slightly.
Only on the sixth pass did he end it.
His lance struck squarely, lifting Rhaegar from his saddle and sending him into the dirt—hard, but not brutal. The crowd held its breath.
Rhaegar's Kingsguard began to rush forward—but Mors was faster.
He was already there, dismounting, offering his hand.
"My prince," Mors said, offering a firm grip. "Apologies. Are you hurt?"
Rhaegar's smile was brilliant—but it cracked for a heartbeat.
"Of course not," he replied. "It was a wonderful match. I look forward to a rematch in future tourneys… dear cousin."
Mors smiled back. "Good. Glad to hear it."
Then, without hesitation, he lifted Rhaegar's arm high into the air as if to signal joint victory.
The crowd erupted.
From the royal box, Doran chuckled. "Mors has learned a great deal. He handled that very well."
Elia smiled, warm and proud. "Of course. He is our brother."
But her eyes remained fixed on Rhaegar.
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The Crown of the Tourney
Mors stood alone before the cheering masses as his name was called.
"Prince Mors Martell of Dorne—Champion of the Lists!"
The herald's voice echoed like thunder. A wreath of golden roses awaited him, to be placed upon the head of the Queen of Love and Beauty.
He turned toward Elia. She met his gaze, and for a second, he prepared to step toward her.
But she raised a brow… then playfully tilted her head toward Ashara, feigning offense.
As if to say, you better not mess this up.
Mors exhaled—then seemed to make a decision internally and shifted course.
Ashara's eyes widened. He stepped toward her, removed the wreath, and placed it gently atop her dark hair.
Ashara Dayne blushed.
Actually blushed.
The crowd roared again, but this time it was something different. Realization. Recognition. A whisper spreading through nobles and smallfolk alike.
Something had changed.
Ashara dipped into a deep, graceful curtsy, still blushing.
And Mors—tall, sun-kissed, and resplendent in Martell crimson—offered his arm.
The sun of Dorne had won more than a tourney.
He had had announced himself.