Sunspear- Loreza's Solar, Late 273 AC
POV I – Loreza Martell
The afternoon light spilled into Loreza Martell's solar, warm and golden, glinting off the sea beyond the window. She sat in her cushioned chair, hands loosely wrapped around a cup of tea, watching the distant horizon. Beside her, Elia sat quietly, a book resting in her lap, though her gaze often drifted to her mother's face rather than the page.
Across the room, Doran was finishing orders to the last of the commanders, his voice calm but firm as he detailed the arrangements for Dorne's defenses. The plans were meticulous—enough to hold the Marches and coasts while Lewyn Martell led the fleet and army into battle, and while Mors's strike group—including Oberyn, Manfrey, and Ser Jeremy Norridge—slipped into the Stepstones to assault an island where captives were rumored to be held.
When the final commander departed, the room grew quieter. Only Doran, Mellario, Elia and Loreza remained, with Areo Hotah and a few trusted guards standing sentinel by the door.
Loreza spoke first, her voice low but edged with worry.
"We shouldn't have agreed to let them go. They are still children, Doran. How can we let children fight our wars?"
Doran exhaled slowly, the sound more weary than frustrated. This was not the first time she had raised the concern. His gaze flicked to Elia, then to Mellario, who rose from her seat and moved to Loreza's side.
"Mother," Mellario said gently, taking her hand, "you must believe in your children. They are stronger than you give them credit for. You've seen their progress. Even Areo is impressed with Mors—and little impresses him."
Elia, silent until now, set her book aside and placed a hand on her mother's shoulder in quiet support.
That coaxed the faintest smile from Doran. "Mellario is right. And with Mors's abilities, plus Lewyn backing them, this is the safest mission they could take. You know how they are—if we don't involve them in a controlled way, there's no telling what reckless thing they might attempt instead. Especially with Manfrey's condition… they're like brothers. They'd do anything for each other."
Elia added softly, "And you know how fiercely they protect one another. They'll watch each other's backs."
Loreza sighed, saying nothing for a while. The sound of the sea drifted faintly through the open window. Finally, she spoke again—her eyes still on the horizon.
"I know this. But the issue is… Mors is too exceptional. There have already been attempts on his life. What do you think will happen once stories of his exploits spread?" She turned to face Doran, her gaze sharp. "I fear that once he takes the stage, he will never be able to leave it again."
Her tone hardened. "I agreed to your decision. But you must help him carry the burden. He is our future. He is our Sun. I don't want him burning out before his time."
Doran looked as though he had been firmly chastised, but his expression was steady. "I will. We will. Together, as a family, we'll ensure he can bear it. Don't worry, Mother—together we are strong."
Loreza's shoulders eased, just slightly. "…Good."
She turned back to the window, her reflection faint in the glass. The tea had cooled in her hands, but she drank it anyway, her eyes still fixed on the sunlit sea.
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Sunspear - Doran's Solar, Early 275 AC
POV II – Doran Martell
The afternoon sun bled through the shutters, casting long bars of light across Doran Martell's desk. Stacks of parchment sat in front of him—petitions, reports, and letters—each one a reminder of the knots tightening around Dorne.
He read in silence for a time, then pushed back from the desk with a sigh, rubbing his brow. Fatigue sat heavy behind his eyes, matched only by the weight of the decisions before him.
House Yronwood had been relentless—both in their open accusations and their quiet strikes—since Oberyn's supposed "killing" of Lord Edgar Yronwood and the equally false charge of "raping" Sarella. Their demands for blood had not ceased, and while he and his mother had always kept the larger game in mind, there was no reality in which he would hand Oberyn over. If war came of it, so be it.
And yet… war was not something they could afford. Not now. Not after the bold campaign in the Stepstones, which had brought them gain but also suspicion from the Crown. In such a contest, the Iron Throne would almost certainly side with Yronwood. That was an outcome Doran could not permit.
Marriage and alliances—those were the safer weapons. Oberyn was out of the question; his nature would win them more enemies than allies. That left Mors, Elia… and, perhaps, Manfrey.
Mors was complicated—by far the most valuable piece on the board, but now tangled in the secret of his magic. If that truth became widely known, the cost would be his life. Elia was the most urgent matter—well within marriageable age. The best offer so far had come from Ser Baelor Hightower, though Elia had shown no interest. Privately, Doran and Loreza still held out hope for a royal match.
He picked up another letter and frowned. Oldtown again. The wax bore the Hightower seal—though the sender was no lord.
"Malora 'the Mad Maid' Hightower," he muttered, breaking it open. "This makes five from her. Three proposing marriage to Mors, one offering to serve as his maid, and now…"
He stopped, blinking at the words.
"…to be used as a stool by Mors?"
He stared at the parchment a moment longer before setting it atop the steadily growing pile from her. With a slow exhale, he pressed his fingers to his temples.
"What in the Seven Hells is wrong with this woman?"
He was still shaking his head when a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he called.
The new master, Torvian, entered—a man in his early thirties, medium-length hair already thinning at the temples. More importantly, he was Dornish. Loreza had plucked him from an orphanage years ago for early grooming, and Doran trusted him more than most.
"My prince," the maester said, offering a sealed letter. "From Lord Beric Dayne."
"Oh?" Doran took it, breaking the seal. His eyes moved quickly over the page, and his expression softened into a faint smile.
"Ha. Good. Mors always finds a way to help me, even when he doesn't realize it."
He thought a moment, then looked up. "Write to Lord Beric. Tell him we cannot force anything, but we will gladly accept Ashara Dayne as one of Elia's ladies-in-waiting. That would allow her and Mors to interact freely. If something develops naturally between them, we would have no cause to refuse."
The maester nodded. "At once, my prince." He left the room.
Doran sat back, smiling to himself.
If Mors and Ashara align, it would give us the counterweight we need to weather Yronwood's wrath.
He laughed softly and rose from his chair. "I should tell Mother. She'll love it—she's always liked Ashara."
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Sunspear - Training Grounds, Mid–275 AC
POV III – Ser Qerrin Toland
The clatter of steel rang across the training yard, mingling with the barked calls of drill commands as the fighters steadily improved their mastery of what Mors had dubbed Dornish Martial Arts. He claimed it was derived from something called 'Krap-Maka'—or something like that. Different, certainly, but absolutely effective.
Qerrin Toland rolled his shoulders as he stepped back from the sparring ring, sweat running down the lines of his face. The Dornish sun was merciless, but he welcomed the heat—it reminded him that he was alive.
Alive, and far from the stinking, forsaken island where he had nearly rotted to death. Mors Martell had pulled him from that hell—starved, half-delirious, his wrists raw from chains. Qerrin had later sworn his sword to the prince never looked back.
Now, he trained alongside the men and women of the Eclipse Guard—Mors's own special regiment, formed from the best and most trusted. They were officially part of the Spears of the Sun, but everyone knew their true role: Mors's personal shield and strike force. The name came naturally, from the sleek black interceptor ship they traveled in: The Eclipse.
Qerrin stepped into the shade of an awning and took a long pull from a waterskin. His eyes swept across the yard, following the rhythm of blades and shields. A good group. A dangerous group.
He was older than most of them at twenty-five, though not the eldest—Ser Jeremy Norridge held that honor at forty-four, a seasoned knight with graying hair and the steady bearing of a man who had become both mentor and father figure to Mors. Then came Jorran, the one-eyed terror at thirty-five, and Cale, all raw strength and quiet focus, twenty-seven.
Among the younger blades, Daro stood out—twenty-two, fast and fluid with twin swords. Syenna, twenty-one, was as deadly as she was beautiful, her talent for infiltration making her invaluable in the shadows. Ser Tahlor Sand, twenty, freshly knighted and once Jeremy's squire, was a model of knightly discipline and one of the best raw talents Qerrin had ever seen.
Arodan Sand, also twenty, had once been a smuggler; now he was their eyes and ears in the underworld, a man who could find the hidden things others didn't even know existed. Ser Bedwyck Uller, cousin to Prince Manfrey Martell and a close friend of Mors, was an exceptional knight at twenty-two, new to the unit but already proving his worth.
Idrin Qho, seventeen, had the looks of a court dandy but the aim of a seasoned marksman, his skill with bow and throwing knives matched only by his mischievous grin. His sister, a famed courtesan, was the subject of whispered stories in Planky Town and beyond.
And then there was the youngest—Naerya, sixteen, wiry and quick, her hands as fast with a blade as they had once been with a stolen coin purse. She'd tried to pick Mors's pocket years ago. Instead of losing the hand, she'd been given a chance. Now she trained with the same fierce determination as the rest.
A mismatched band of killers, thieves, knights, and survivors—but every one of them was loyal to Mors to the bone.
Qerrin let the waterskin drop to his side, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The future looked bright.
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The Citadel, Early 276 AC
POV IV: Oberyn Martell
Oberyn closed the heavy tome with a quiet thump, dust motes swirling in the shaft of morning light. Since arriving at the Citadel, his studies had been… eclectic. Healing, poisons, governance, warfare, the occasional foray into magic—and, out of curiosity, a few darker arts the Archmaesters would rather pretend didn't exist.
He slid the book back onto the shelf and turned toward the door, only to be halted by a drawling, mocking voice from across the hall.
"Well, if it isn't the Red Viper, catching up on your poison lessons. I don't know how they allow… people like you in here. This used to be a noble institution of learning. With you, it feels more like a whorehouse."
Oberyn turned slowly, his most dazzling smile already in place. "Oh, if it isn't Tiny. Was that jealousy I heard in your voice? I didn't sleep with your mother… or your father, did I?"
He closed the distance in two easy strides, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder. The Reachman stiffened as if a great weight had suddenly pressed down on him.
"Tiny," Oberyn said softly, leaning in, "I don't know what gave you the impression you could approach this prince so casually. But if you insist on calling me the Red Viper, you should know that with just a touch—like the one I have on you now—you could be dead in moments. I don't know you, I don't care for you, but from now on… you are Tiny. And I promise, I'll have a great deal of fun with you."
He released the man with a charming smile. The noble stumbled backward, landing hard before scrambling away in a panic, pale and wide-eyed. Oberyn watched him go, amused, then stepped out into the courtyard.
Two guards fell in step behind him without a word. Once they were far enough from prying ears, Oberyn spoke without looking back.
"What did you find out?"
"My prince, the trail went cold. But we can confirm that one of the Archmaesters had contact with the messenger linked to former Maester Orthar. We couldn't get a physical description."
Oberyn's expression cooled. "Hmm. Narrowed down, then…" The serious look faded into his signature grin. "Well done. Keep digging. If we can't find the one responsible, the Citadel may need a… fresh batch of Archmaesters. I'd like to avoid an unnecessary massacre, of course."
'No one tries to assassinate my younger brother without consequences.'
"Yes, my prince."
"Good." His smile turned wicked. "Now, I believe that tomboy courtesan from the other day is expecting me—and she's far too much fun to neglect."
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Lannisport – Tourney Grounds, Early 276 AC
POV V : Cersei Lannister
The stands roared as the two great destriers thundered down the list. Cersei Lannister leaned forward in her seat, golden hair catching the sunlight, her green eyes fixed on the final tilt between Prince Mors Martell and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Two princes—two visions of nobility—bearing down upon each other like figures from a song. Rhaegar, all silver hair and solemn grace, his presence regal and untouchable. Mors, taller, broader, his long platinum hair tied back in a warrior's tail, his very posture radiating command. Even from here, she could feel it—that overwhelming presence that seemed to make every other man seem lesser.
Rhaegar had played his harp for her on the first day of the tourney. She knew it had been for her. How could it not be? She was to be his queen. It was a shame about Mors, really. She still remembered the smile he had given her when he visited Lannisport three years ago, during that courtship tour. He had wanted her—she was sure of it. But Father had rejected the match. Pity. She would have made a fine princess of Dorne. At least she would be Queen instead.
Perhaps she should speak to that witch she had heard whispers about in the hills beyond the city. It would be wise to know what the future held… what she must prepare for.
Her thoughts broke as the clash came—lances splintering with a thunderous crack. Gasps swept through the stands as Rhaegar was unhorsed, his black armor flashing as he struck the sand. Mors wheeled his destrier about, dismounted in one smooth motion, and offered his cousin a hand. Together, they walked to the center of the lists, Mors raising Rhaegar's hand as well as his own. A shared triumph.
Cersei's breath caught. 'Such nobility. Such command.' She all but swooned at the sight of them together.
Beside her, Jaime crossed his arms, muttering, "One day, I'll beat them both."
She smiled at him, proud and confident. "It might be difficult, but if anyone can do it, it's a Lion of the Rock."
Her uncle Kevan, seated to her left, nodded approvingly at the display in the lists. Cersei barely noticed—her gaze had already shifted to the crowd of nobles in attendance. There was Lord Mace Tyrell with his Hightower wife, Alerie, dabbing at her lips while her husband stuffed himself until the front of his fine doublet bore the evidence. Ugh. Disgusting. Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale sat stiffly among his knights, his eyes lingering too long on the younger maidens—like the way Jaime looked at fine blades in the armory. Farther down, the Tully brother they called the Blackfish, his expression as cold and unreadable as stone.
One day, they would all bow to her.
A ripple of noise drew her attention back to the field. Mors was accepting his laurel—and placing it into the hands of… her.
Cersei's lips parted. "Who is she?" she hissed, her voice sharp. Heat rose in her chest. "Has he moved on so quickly? This is unacceptable." She straightened in her seat, chin high, eyes narrowing. "I'll speak to Father about this."
Her gaze locked on the girl, committing every feature to memory.
"I need to know who she is."
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Myr, Mid 276 AC
POV VI: ?
The chamber reeked of spilt wine, sweat, and the acrid tang of oil lamps burning too low. A half-dozen Myrish nobles lay sprawled across couches and carpets, their flushed faces slack, mouths half-open in drunken stupor. To the untrained eye, it was a scene of overindulgence. To anyone who knew better, the faintly sweet scent in the air told another truth—something more than wine had been in their cups.
A tall, striking woman with sun-browned skin and dark hair streaked with early silver moved among them in silence. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her beauty edged with something harder, colder. The silk of her gown hung askew, a calculated disarray that matched the others in the room. Beneath the loosened fabric, faint marks and smears hinted at what these men had bought with their coin.
She knelt beside a slumped merchant prince and drew a narrow blade from her sleeve. Without hesitation, she slid it across his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. Warm blood spread into the wine-stained cushions. Around the room, four other women did the same, each striking with the quiet efficiency of those long past fear.
One of them—barely more than a girl—didn't stop at the first stroke. She straddled a greasy, thick-necked noble and drove her dagger into him again and again, each thrust punctuated by ragged sobs.
"Disgusting bastard… monster… fiend…"
The Dornish woman watched, a flicker of pity crossing her features. But pity was a luxury she had burned out of herself years ago. All that remained was the iron weight of revenge.
Another merchant died beneath her hand before she turned toward the desk at the far wall. Papers lay scattered across it. She scanned them, and her lips parted slightly.
"…Improved formulas for the creation of glass."
The names on the documents matched the men bleeding out behind her. The heads of one of Myr's largest glass-making syndicates—the same who had bought her as damaged goods three years ago. The same who had thought they could break her.
She slipped the documents into a leather satchel while behind her, the others continued their work. Some killed in silence, others wept as they stabbed, venting years of humiliation and grief in one blood-soaked hour.
'I need to get this to Loreza…'
She paused at the door, glancing back once—not at the corpses, but at the women standing over them.
"Manfrey… wait for me just a little longer. I still need to avenge your father… even if it costs me my life. I'm not the same woman I was."
She tightened her grip on the satchel.
"I may not be a Martell… but I am still Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Until the end—until it burns."