Chapter VI: The Weight of Steel

The courtyard was quiet.

No music, no children's laughter, no servants bustling with trays or garlands. Just the rhythmic beat of boots on sand-packed stone, and the low groan of wood as training racks swayed in the breeze. Sunspear was waking slowly, but this part of the palace was already alert.

Mors stood with his spear planted in the dirt beside him. Oberyn stood to his right, barefoot and smirking faintly. Manfrey to his left, chewing the inside of his lip like it might keep him from throwing up.

And before them, tall and motionless, stood Ser Lewyn Martell—Prince of Dorne, Commander of the Spears of the Sun, and, by reputation alone, one of the most dangerous men south of the Red Mountains.

"You're not boys today," Lewyn said, arms crossed, voice like sand scraping steel. "You're meat. If you're lucky, you'll become weapons. If not, I'll know soon enough."

He began to pace, each step measured and slow.

"You want to join the Spears? Earn the sash and the seal? Then know this: I don't care what your names are. I don't care who your mother is or what blood you think gives you the right to stand here. The spear doesn't care either. Only the sun will watch you burn."

Mors didn't flinch. Neither did Oberyn. Manfrey looked like he was reconsidering life choices.

"Good," Lewyn said. "Let's begin."

They trained without pause.

Footwork. Shoulder drills. Weighted runs. Then live-contact sparring with dulled spears. No shields. No padding. Just pain. Mors paired with Oberyn first, and the clash of wood against wood echoed through the stone corridor like war drums.

Oberyn grinned as they moved. "Don't hold back," he said.

"I won't," Mors answered—and didn't.

Their rhythm was tight, a sharp back-and-forth that forced focus. Oberyn struck fast and played to flair, but Mors read his hips, his shoulders. He countered with timing, not speed. It kept him alive, barely. He still lost. But not by much.

"Better," Oberyn muttered as they separated. "You're heavier on the left foot though."

Mors nodded, winded. "Noted."

Lewyn barked at them to rotate. Mors now faced Manfrey, who lunged in too early and caught a tap to the ribs.

"Ow—Seven—sorry," Manfrey gasped, staggering back.

"Don't apologize," Mors said through gritted teeth. "Just guard your center."

They went again.

And again.

And again.

By midmorning, their tunics clung to their skin, their palms raw, their legs trembling. Mors felt the heat like a second opponent, pounding behind his eyes. But he refused to stop.

You asked for this, he reminded himself. Now prove you deserve it.

Finally, Lewyn stepped into the ring.

"Individual trials," he said. "We separate steel from sand now."

He pointed. "Mors. In."

Mors tightened his grip on the spear and stepped forward. Lewyn stripped off his overcloak, picked up a spear from the rack, and entered opposite him.

"Attack," Lewyn said. "Now."

No warning. No signal. Just a demand.

Mors moved.

He lunged, form clean and precise—but Lewyn swept the strike aside with a brutal arc, pivoting behind him like a shadow.

Mors spun, more by instinct than thought, his feet adjusting without conscious command—a flash of reactive training from another life.

He brought his elbow up to deflect—not standard spear form, but effective—just not fast enough.

Lewyn's spear cracked against his shoulder, staggering him.

"Good reaction," Lewyn growled.

"But you need to be faster. You move like you're still waiting for permission."

He stepped back, eyes sharp. "This isn't a lesson—it's a test."

They moved again.

Strike. Parry. Counter. Twist.

Lewyn didn't dance. He cut angles like a butcher. Mors gave ground, not from fear—but because the only way to survive was to adapt.

'Don't chase. Let him come to you.'

He waited, baited a high strike, then ducked and swept low—but Lewyn jumped the strike and jabbed him in the ribs.

Pain blossomed sharp and immediate.

Mors dropped to one knee, gasping.

"Get up," Lewyn said.

He did.

They reset. Again.

This time, Mors didn't attack first. He waited. Let the world slow. Watched Lewyn's front foot shift, just slightly.

And when the blow came—he was already turning.

Wood cracked wood. Then silence.

Lewyn stepped back, lowering his weapon slightly.

"Better," he said. "Again."

Two more rounds.

By the third, Mors's arms burned and his vision blurred. His whole body felt like one large bruise stitched together by stubborn will.

Then Lewyn swept his legs out, hard. Mors hit the ground, spine jarring, breath whooshing out.

He blinked against the sky.

And froze.

There—on the shaded balcony above the courtyard—stood Princess Loreza Martell.

She wasn't announced. She wasn't surrounded by attendants or guards.

She just stood there.

Watching.

Her face was unreadable. Her expression held neither pride nor disappointment—only scrutiny.

Mors pushed himself up, every muscle screaming.

By the time he looked again, she was gone.

Oberyn went next. Then Manfrey. Both gave their best. Both ended face down in the dirt, bruised and humbled.

When they lined up again, Lewyn stood before them with his arms behind his back.

"You'll begin training tomorrow at dawn," he said. "With the new recruits. You'll eat with them, bleed with them, and earn your place from the sand up. If I ever hear you demanding special treatment or speaking as princes, I'll throw your spears into the sea and send you back to your mothers."

Lewyn studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

"You've got sharp instincts. Faster than most your age."

He gestured toward the space between them.

"But the way you move… it's like your body's still learning to keep up with your instincts."

He stepped forward, voice level.

"You think in angles, pressure, timing—that's rare. But you're not there yet. Your mind's ahead of your muscles."

A pause. Then bluntly:

"Instinct without discipline gets people killed. You hesitate, and that's what gets you hurt. Or worse."

Then at Oberyn. "You rely too much on flair. Style won't stop steel."

Then Manfrey. "You're soft. But there's steel under it. We'll find it."

He turned away. "Dismissed."

That night, Mors skipped the celebratory feast arranged for the Spears' return. He found himself instead beneath one of the old fig trees by the lower garden wall, chewing on salted duck and bread while his muscles throbbed like hammered metal.

He stared into the branches above.

His knuckles were split. His ribs bruised. His ego shredded. And yet—he had never felt more alive.

Footsteps crunched behind him.

"You're missing roast boar and honey wine," Elia's voice said gently.

He didn't turn. "I've had enough feasting."

She came to sit beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.

"Mother was watching," she said softly.

"I know."

"She didn't stay long. But… she saw you fall."

Mors smirked dryly. "Then she saw what I am. And what I'm not."

"No," Elia said. "She saw you get up."

That shut him up.

After a beat, she placed a fig in his hand. "Regardless of what's driving you down this path… always remember who you are—and who you're fighting for."

He looked down at the fruit. Then back at Elia, eyes steady.

"I haven't," he said.

Before sunrise, Mors was already moving.

He didn't wait for the horns. He didn't wait for the others. He rose before the world and ran—across the silent courtyards, into the narrow alleys of Sunspear, down to the stables and out to the empty dunes where only the wind watched him.

His legs burned. His chest heaved. But he didn't stop.

He trained.

He drilled stances until his thighs trembled. Practiced sweeps until his shoulders locked. When the sun finally broke over the horizon, he stood at the top of the dunes, sand-caked and blood-speckled from splinters.

Below, the palace began to stir.

The Spears of the Sun would begin drills soon.

And Mors would be waiting.

He wasn't training for approval—he was preparing to lead.

To shape his own path.

To challenge fate itself.

And just like that, two years passed.