Three months had passed since the courtship tour ended. The winds had shifted.
Prince Maron Martell had sailed to King's Landing a month after their return, hoping to persuade the Small Council to reject supporting Volantis in its growing conflict across the Narrow Sea. Tywin Lannister, ever shrewd, had advised the Crown to remain neutral. But whether out of arrogance—or spite—King Aerys had chosen to back Volantis.
The consequences were already being felt. Pirate activity in the Stepstones had surged in recent weeks, likely fueled by proxy retaliation from Myr or Tyrosh.
Three weeks ago, Maron had written from the capital. Despite all his efforts, the council had remained divided. There had been no progress. He and Mellei Uller were preparing to return to Dorne, unsuccessful.
Back in Dorne, things moved forward.
Oberyn and Manfrey had officially joined the Spears of the Sun, riding west with Lewyn Martell to begin a months-long sweep through the Red Mountains to root out the raider remnants that had ambushed the caravan the previous year. The campaign was harsh and bloody—but necessary. And both boys had wanted it.
Mors had stayed behind—Loreza remained firm in her decision that he wouldn't officially join the Spears until he turned fourteen. In the meantime, he trained daily with Ser Jeremy Norridge, his father's old companion. The two had grown close.
Training Yard in Sunspear
The sun had begun its steady climb when Mors and Jeremy stepped into the training yard. The sand was warm beneath their boots, and a faint sea breeze stirred the banners above the ramparts. Lewyn watched from the shade, arms crossed, silent as a hawk.
They faced one another—prince and knight—each armed with blunted training weapons: Jeremy with a longsword, Mors with a Dornish spear.
The opening was cautious. Jeremy moved with measured precision, gauging Mors's rhythm. But Mors didn't wait. He surged forward with youthful speed, his spear slicing in a tight arc toward Jeremy's shoulder. The knight caught the blow on his blade—easy—but his brows lifted slightly, though he was no longer surprised by the force behind it.
Mors pressed the attack. He spun, kicked off his back foot, and swept low—forcing Jeremy to hop back or risk being knocked off balance. The boy was light on his feet, agile and relentless. Every motion spoke of a body honed by discipline and hunger. His strikes carried more intent than most men twice his age.
Jeremy adjusted quickly, parrying a thrust and twisting into a counter. Mors ducked under it, rolled across the sand, and rose into guard. He wasn't just fast—he adapted. His footwork still had rough edges, but it was precise. Sharper than it had any right to be at thirteen.
They exchanged a flurry of blows—spear clacking against sword, boots grinding across the sand. Mors feinted high, then stepped in and drove the butt of his spear toward Jeremy's ribs. It landed—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make the older man grunt and give ground.
Jeremy grinned. "Alright, then."
He responded with a low sweeping strike that caught Mors off guard. The boy stumbled, but turned the fall into a controlled roll and came up kicking—striking toward Jeremy's knee. It didn't land, but it could have. Jeremy answered with a mock punch that Mors narrowly dodged.
Both stepped back. Breathing hard from the spar, though Mors was visibly less.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a single nod of approval.
"Your instincts keep getting sharper. Your talent's honestly unnatural—gods-defying speed, the strength of a career blacksmith. But after three months… it's your stamina that's really started to impress me."
Mors caught his breath, then grinned. "I was worried the tour might've dulled me—lost a lot of training time. But the progress over the last three months… it's been frightening, even to me."
Areo, still watching from the shade, gave a low grunt. "You've improved. All around."
Mors rolled his eyes. "You still hold back in our spars."
Areo gave a simple nod. "Naturally."
Mors's eye twitched slightly. Even after a few months, he still couldn't tell if the 6'8" (203 cm) behemoth was being smug, sarcastic… or something else entirely.
Jeremy looked at Mors again—longer this time, almost like a father seeing more than just skill. "No. He's more than improving. He's something special."
He sheathed the training sword. "That's enough for today. I'm testing a possible recruit for your personal guard."
Mors had begun sharing elements of his own fighting style—techniques drawn from his past life. He called it Dornish Martial Arts to avoid raising too many questions. Jeremy, intrigued by the unique and ruthless method, picked it up quickly. Together, they had begun drafting plans to form a specialized personal guard for Mors, with Jeremy as its captain.
The idea was simple: a compact, elite unit built around speed, precision, and adaptability. Jeremy had already started scouting for promising recruits.
Areo Hotah occasionally joined their training sessions. Though he rarely spoke, his precision and fluid control—especially given his massive frame—had impressed even Jeremy. Over time, both Jeremy and Mors had earned his quiet respect.
Off the training grounds, Mors spent time with Mellario, Elia, and Doran—often sharing quiet afternoons over tea or light meals. Loreza joined them when her court duties allowed.
Jeremy and Loreza also found time to catch up when they could, usually over wine or the occasional dinner.
Later That Morning
The sun was warm, the air gentle with the scent of orange blossom.
They sat in the Garden of the Sun, a shaded marble courtyard ringed with flowering trees. Mellario poured honeyed tea for Elia and Mors, while Doran spoke softly to Loreza about the Spears' progress against the mountain raiders—
—until the sound of rapid footsteps broke the peace.
The maester—a wiry, pale-skinned man named Maester Othmar—rushed into the garden, his robes half-loosened and scrolls bouncing against his satchel.
"Your Grace—" he gasped, "I... I have an urgent message—"
Loreza raised a hand calmly. "Compose yourself, Maester. You're a grown man, not a page. Let me see it."
Maester Othmar hesitated, swallowing hard. His hands trembled as he extended the sealed letter.
Loreza broke the wax and began reading.
Her face, steady as stone a moment ago, began to drain of color.
Then her fingers twitched. The letter slipped from her grasp. A low whisper escaped her lips.
"No..."
And she collapsed.
Elia cried out as Doran caught Loreza before she struck the ground.
Mellario and Elia rushed to her side. Mors was already kneeling, supporting her head.
Maester Othmar scrambled forward, breath catching in his throat. He checked her pulse, then exhaled slowly. "She's only fainted," he said. "I can have her awake shortly—just let me—" He rummaged through his satchel.
But Doran had picked up the fallen letter.
He read silently, his hand gripping the parchment tighter with each line. When he finished, he stood slowly, holding the letter like it had weight.
"No," he said, quieter now. "Let her rest a moment. It might be... for the best."
Mors looked up sharply. "Doran... what is it?"
Doran stared straight ahead, voice steady—but heavy.
"We've received word from House Santagar."
Everyone went quiet.
"There was an attack off the coast of Spottswood. Pirates struck Maron's ship."
He paused. "He... fought hard. But his wounds... he died of them before he could make landfall."
Doran's mouth moved, but the next words came barely above a whisper.
"Uncle Maron... is dead."
Elia broke down into sobs, clutching Mellario's arm as she wept. Mellario herself gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in shock.
Mors didn't speak.
His jaw clenched. His hands closed into fists. His chest rose sharply.
Heat flushed through his body, unrelenting and cold at once. His uncle—the man who had ridden at the head of the tour, who had quietly guided Mors since childhood, who had never hesitated to stand in front of danger—was gone.
Murdered by cowards and thieves with no banners.
His eyes lowered. The table shook beneath his clenched fists.
And then something changed.
Everyone felt it.
Doran blinked. A strange clarity rushed into his mind—sharp and sudden. The fatigue in his limbs began to melt away. His focus sharpened. He felt... stronger. He looked at Mors with surprise.
It wasn't just him. Mellario sat up straighter. Elia looked startled, her tearful eyes briefly wide with alertness.
In that moment of clarity, Doran turned—and caught it.
A glint.
Maester Othmar, staring at Mors —not with concern, but with something colder.
Calculating. Predatory.
There was a flicker of something else too—something darker. Like malice barely hidden.
Doran's eyes narrowed.
That glint didn't belong.
His face hardened, the warmth gone from his features. Something ruthless settled behind his eyes.
But then Loreza stirred.
A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her fingers twitched. Her eyes fluttered open.
Mors, still at her side, steadied her as she came to.
Loreza's breath came in quick bursts. Her voice cracked, raw with emotion.
"We... we need to—"
"Mother," Doran said firmly, stepping in. "You need rest. Everything else can wait. Let me handle it."
At that moment, Ser Jeremy entered the garden, still half-armored from sparring with Areo. His face tightened when he saw the tension in the room.
"Ser Jeremy," Doran said. "Please escort my mother to her quarters."
Jeremy nodded at once, moving beside Loreza with careful hands.
Then Doran turned to the Maester.
"Maester Othmar, go with them. Prepare a light dose of milk of the poppy for Her Grace. Nothing strong. Just enough to ease her nerves."
Othmar hesitated—then bowed stiffly and followed.
Doran's gaze didn't waver. Cold. Unblinking.
Mors watched it all, his head still spinning.
And then the weight hit him.
A sudden, heavy fatigue—deeper than any he'd felt after training. His limbs ached. His chest felt hollow. Like something inside had been drawn out.
He straightened, then swayed.
"Brother..." he said softly. "Did something happen? Did I... do something?"
Doran turned to him, eyes softer now but still unreadable.
"I'm not completely sure," he said. "But everything shifted when your emotions did. That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"
He stepped forward and placed a hand on Mors's shoulder.
"Don't think on it too hard now. We'll talk later—after I take care of something."
Then he turned to where Areo Hotah stood, silent and alert.
Doran leaned in, whispered something only Areo could hear.
The big man's expression darkened instantly. His usual calm turned sharp. Dangerous.
Areo gave a small nod, then stepped away.
Doran kissed Mellario gently on the temple.
"Stay with Mors. Help him to his quarters—he needs rest. I'll be back soon."
She nodded, already reaching for Mors's arm.
Doran and Areo strode off together, their footsteps measured—but heavy with purpose.
Mors tried to rise, but staggered.
Mellario caught him without hesitation, then called out softly. Two handmaidens rushed to help, guiding him gently inside.
As they walked, Mors felt the pressure still humming in his chest.
The grief was there. The anger too. But something else had awakened with it.
'That... wasn't normal,' he thought, recalling the way the air had shifted, how everyone around him had reacted—like something had passed through all of them.
Even Doran had noticed.
'They all felt it.'
And deep down, he was certain it was tied to the power inside him—the aura he'd kept hidden.
'Looks like it's time I talk to the family about it.'