VII: Forge and Heart

Mid 272 AC

The desert had become his crucible.

Mors Martell ran barefoot across the dunes long before the sun crested Sunspear's towers, breath rhythmic, muscles surging with every stride. Only a strip of cloth at his waist, his chest slick with sweat and sand, and his breath steady despite the incline. His feet no longer blistered; the sun-kissed skin had thickened, hardened with each dawn.

'The stronger I become… the more this power strengthens me in return.'

It was a truth he'd only begun to fully understand. The strange aura within him—his gift, his cheat, whatever it was—did not grant power from nothing. It amplified. Enhanced. Multiplied the foundation already there.

So he'd spent the last two years building that foundation—day by day—under Uncle Lewyn's discipline and Uncle Maron's steady hand.

After the morning dunes, he dove into the sea.

Three laps out past the reefs, where the guards hesitated to follow. The salt burned his eyes, but that was the point—resistance, unpredictability, breath control. The ocean fought him every stroke. And he welcomed the fight.

By the time he returned, sand stuck to his skin like armor.

Then came the forge.

Two hours each day with the blacksmiths, working the bellows, hammering heated iron into shape—first with his right hand, then his left.

They called him mad at first, but the results spoke louder: Strength. Endurance. Precision.

His palms were a roadmap of burns and calluses now.

Even Oberyn and Manfrey started joining now and then.

In the afternoons: grappling drills in the pit with Oberyn and the heavier recruits. He began integrating movements from the fighting style he remembered—low stances, joint control, disabling strikes—foreign to Westerosi forms but brutally effective.

No flair. No honor-bound technique. Just leverage, instinct, and threat elimination.

He didn't name it. It simply was. A kind of combat memory baked into his bones.

In the evenings: spear forms. Then sword drills. Then recovery… if you could call dunking in a freezing cistern recovery.

Sometimes he practiced blindfolded—mapping movement through pressure and breath, not sight. Stress drills. Sudden attack responses. Training his body to react before thought could catch up

He did it all again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

"You're going to kill yourself," Oberyn muttered as they collapsed beside the training pit, chests heaving, bruises blooming across their ribs and arms.

Mors rolled onto his side, panting. "The point of this is to avoid exactly that."

Manfrey groaned from the other end. "You know, it's hard to sell that idea when you look half-dead every evening."

He sat up, rubbing his shoulder, then flexed his arm with a wince.

"Still… I'll admit, I've been feeling stronger. These weird drills of yours—they're doing something."

Mors didn't answer. He just stared up at the burning sky, letting the ache in his muscles anchor him. He could feel it—his body responding, growing faster than it had any right to. His power accelerated progress. But it didn't replace effort.

"Any idea when Doran will return?" he asked after a moment.

His mother, Doran, and Uncle Lewyn had traveled to King's Landing for the grand event—King Aerys's Ten-Year Anniversary Tourney. The capital had buzzed with fanfare and spectacle, but word of tension had followed. Mors remembered visiting the city when he was only five. He had met King Aerys, Queen Rhaella, and Prince Rhaegar. Aerys had been courteous enough, though even then, his eyes had seemed… off. Like something inside was humming too loud. Mors had been too young to name it then, but looking back now, it read like a warning sign. The Queen, by contrast, had been lovely—graceful, gentle, and warm in the way only certain women could be with children. It was strange to think they were actually his first cousins. Rhaegar… well, Rhaegar had been five years old. They'd played, supposedly. Mors remembered flashes—laughter, wooden swords, a courtyard fountain—but it all felt distant, like scenes from someone else's home video.

What had made more recent news, however, was the sharp exchange between King Aerys and his Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister. An offhand insult to Joanna Lannister had reportedly caused a stir so severe that Tywin attempted to resign. Aerys refused.

Oberyn shrugged without opening his eyes, sprawled flat in the sand.

"No idea," he said. "But it shouldn't be much longer. Mother's eager to start that 'courtship tour' she keeps talking about."

He sighed helplessly, tossing a pebble into the dirt beside him.

And wasn't that a surprise.

Apparently, his mother and Joanna Lannister had been quite close in their youth—close enough to discuss the possibility of betrothing the Lannister twins to Martell blood.

Since Doran was too old for such matches, that left three likely candidates: Elia, Oberyn... and himself.

Mors exhaled slowly, the idea settling on his chest like a weight.

Elia, tied to Jaime.

Oberyn, forced into a match with Cersei.

Or worse—himself, shackled to a golden lioness with wildfire behind her eyes.

He didn't know which pairing sounded more dangerous.

'Did this really happen in the story?', Mors wondered.

Or was this just another ripple—the butterfly effect, catching wind?

They could only wait for Doran's return.

When the summons came, Mors wasn't surprised.

He paused only long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow before making his way to the high solar.

The family had gathered… but they weren't alone.

And something in the air felt off.

Tension.

Standing near the window was a beautiful, cool-toned woman with dark eyes and long black hair, her features partially veiled in the formal style of Norvoshi nobility.

Beside her stood a tall, powerfully built man, his dark skin gleaming, head shaved clean, posture sharp and unmoving—like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Doran stood beside the woman, one hand gently resting on her arm, and—for the first time in recent memory—wore a rare, genuine smile.

Elia sat straight-backed and silent, but her posture was rigid.

Oberyn lounged like he didn't care, one leg crossed, but his eyes never left the guests.

Manfrey hovered behind a chair, unsure if he should sit or just keep pretending not to fidget.

Maron stood off to the side, holding a half-opened scroll, as unreadable as ever, but worry lingered in the furrow of his brow.

Lewyn was notably absent—still leading a regiment in pursuit of the sand bandits that had hit a caravan the week before.

At the head of the room stood Princess Loreza, dressed in formal robes of burnt red and black, her face unreadable, her presence unmistakable.

She raised a hand.

"Sit."

They obeyed.

She hesitated for just a moment. Then spoke.

"This is Mellario, a noblewoman of Norvos."

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly—measuring the room.

Then continued.

"She is Doran's betrothed. They are to be married."

Silence cracked like glass.

Elia blinked, lips parting—but no words came.

Oberyn stood suddenly and let out a wild, disbelieving laugh.

Manfrey dropped into the nearest chair with a thud.

Maron didn't move, but his thumb slipped from the scroll—just slightly.

And Mors just stared.

"Huh?" he said, too stunned to find anything smarter.

Elia stood abruptly—but not in anger. Her eyes were wide, a strange brightness behind them.

"You truly love her?" she asked Doran, her voice softer now.

Doran nodded without hesitation.

"With all I am."

Elia let out a slow breath, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Then I'm happy for you."

She turned to Mellario, her tone gentle.

"Truly. Any maiden dreams of marrying for love… even if she pretends otherwise."

Her gaze lingered on Doran.

"You may be the first noble in a generation to actually do it."

Mellario inclined her head, respectful, a small smile touching her lips.

"Then I thank you, Princess."

Elia snorted lightly.

"You'll have to call me sister now. Come—we should talk."

That earned the faintest smirk from Loreza, barely visible at the corners of her mouth.

"With that settled," the Princess said, her voice regaining its edge, "Mellario is here as a future Martell. And we will honor that."

Her eyes slid to Doran. "Though your timing could not be worse."

"There's never a good time to break expectations," Mellario replied, her Norvoshi accent lacing her words.

"But I'll make sure to make him happy."

Maron cleared his throat at last.

"Then… I take it the courtship tour is postponed?"

Loreza turned her head slowly.

"That's correct. There will be a wedding first. In two months. Send word to the lords of Dorne and beyond."

A pause.

"And double the wine orders—we'll need it."

Oberyn chuckled, leaning back.

"Ah, now that sounds like Sunspear. We should host a small tourney while we're at it—something for our age. A 'get-to-know-your-betrothed' sort of bloodsport."

Elia rose again, her expression bright.

"If you'll excuse us, Mellario and I are going to tour the gardens."

She took Mellario's arm with ease, and the two women left the room together, their steps light and unhurried.

Mors watched them go, eyes trailing the tall figure that followed behind.

"By the way," he muttered, "who's tall, dark, and brooding?"

Loreza's smile returned, faint and knowing.

"He's a bearded priest of Norvos. His name is Areo Hotah. Sent by Mellario's family to protect her."

"Ah," Mors said.

That made sense.

Big. Silent. Axe-shaped presence.

Definitely a bodyguard.

This was definitely not what he'd expected when he was summoned.

Almost at the same moment, he and Oberyn turned toward Doran with matching glints of mischief in their eyes.

They looked at each other, grinned like twin conspirators, then stood.

"Alright, brother," Oberyn said, cracking his knuckles.

"Time for details. All of them."

"Yes," Mors added. "We need names, places, scandal, and a map of how exactly you pulled this off without telling any of us."

Doran sighed.

But he was still smiling.