VIII: Sand and Scars

Two months later.

The sun above Sunspear was merciless, but the garden courtyard was alive with color. Silk banners snapped in the sea wind. Spices scented the air. From balconies, nobles leaned in to watch the union of Prince Doran Martell and Mellario of Norvos. It was the kind of ceremony Dorne rarely hosted: sincere, vibrant, and crowded with nearly every major house from the region.

Princess Loreza Martell stood tall beside the couple. She didn't just offer a formal blessing—she offered protection.

"Let no lord whisper that this was a soft match. Let them whisper that Dorne chooses comfort not to escape duty, but to endure it."

Mors stood quietly between Elia and Manfrey, taking it all in. He wasn't old enough to understand every political ripple, but he could see the tension on certain faces. Lord Edgar Yronwood's jaw stayed tight the whole ceremony. A missed match, no doubt. An insult, maybe.

After the feast, during the courtyard mingling, Manfrey nudged Mors. "Two of the Yronwood knights were talking in the breezeway. One of them said, 'Dorne gave up strength for a bedfellow from across the sea.'"

Mors glanced toward Loreza, who stood sipping wine near the fountain.

"Tell her or Doran?"

"Mother," Mors said. "Doran doesn't need the weight tonight."

A few days later, just after sunrise, the royal caravan gathered at Sunspear's main gates. Princess Loreza rode at the front, her sand-steed cloaked in deep crimson barding. Doran and Mellario remained behind—Doran now acting as regent during his mother's absence. Lewyn stayed as well, taking command of city defense and helping Mellario adjust to court life.

The Yronwood host had departed the morning after the wedding without so much as a proper farewell. Lord Edgar, along with his son Ormond and daughter Sarella, had been seen in what looked like a heated argument near the stables. Mors had wanted to ask, but it was Maron who filled in the blanks later. Apparently, House Yronwood had once pushed hard for a match between Doran and Sarella—and before that, had tried to secure Elia for Ormond. Loreza had ultimately allowed Doran to marry Mellario, but now Mors understood why she had seemed conflicted leading up to the ceremony.

As the gates closed behind them, Mors glanced back at Sunspear. He'd never been farther than the Water Gardens. This wasn't just a journey—it felt like his first real step into the world beyond. They would cross all of Dorne by caravan before reaching Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne along the Torrentine River. After a day's stay, they would board a ship bound for the Reach, with Casterly Rock as the final destination in the Westerlands.

Politics had never been his strong suit—not in his past life, and not now. But watching Lord Edgar storm off had made one thing clear: keeping House Dayne, Dorne's third-strongest house, close wasn't just smart—it was necessary.

Maron rode just behind Loreza, leading the formation. Elia kept pace with Oberyn and Manfrey, their voices light with banter. Mors stayed nearby, quiet, watching more than speaking. This caravan didn't just carry supplies—it carried a message. A reminder to all of Dorne: We are House Martell. We are present. We are watching.

They made several stops along the way to greet the people—brief ceremonies, food offerings, blessings. At one such stop, House Dayne rejoined the royal party. Lord Beric Dayne, tall, silver-bearded, and formal, greeted Loreza with quiet respect. His sons flanked him: Ulrick, calm and observant; Arthur, already known across Dorne for his swordwork; and Ashara, who looked like she was measuring everyone around her.

Mors and Oberyn had already befriended Arthur and Ulrick during sparring the previous day, but Mors had yet to meet Ashara.

That changed quickly.

She spotted him the moment she arrived and marched straight over, hands on hips.

"You're the one everyone's been talking about," she said flatly.

Mors blinked. "Didn't know I had fans."

"You don't," she said. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're actually fast, or if everyone's confusing brooding for skill."

Oberyn let out a laugh before stifling it behind a cough. Elia smirked. Manfrey looked like he wanted to back away before he got caught in the blast zone.

Mors tilted his head. "Do you always open with a challenge?"

Ashara didn't flinch. "Do you always dodge with sarcasm?"

"Careful," Oberyn warned with a grin. "She's got a wooden sword and no restraint."

Ashara shrugged. "Not no restraint. Just nothing to prove. I'm going to be a knight."

Mors raised a brow. "You're what, eleven?"

"I'm twelve. And from what I hear, so are you. Nobody's stopping you."

"Girls can't be knights," Manfrey muttered—then immediately ducked as Elia raised her hand.

Ashara smirked and shot a look toward Loreza. "This is Dorne. Women can rule. If I want to be a knight, I will be. And Father will just have to allow it."

Arthur stepped up then, voice calm but firm. "Ashara. Go spar with the guards."

She rolled her eyes, but before leaving, she pointed at Mors. "I'll test you later."

He watched her go. "Is she always like that?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. And she usually wins."

Then Arthur turned to Mors. "Yesterday's spar—your timing's good. You've got more talent than you realize. Especially with a longsword."

Mors blinked. "I've trained mostly with shortswords or spears."

"Then let's fix that. It never hurts to master more than one weapon." Arthur offered a small, sincere nod. "I'll train you, if you're willing."

Mors grinned. "If you're offering, who am I to turn down a lesson from the future Sword of the Morning?"

Arthur looked away, almost embarrassed. Ulrick chuckled and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder.

"That title still has to be earned," Arthur said quietly. "But thank you."

Oberyn stepped in next, grinning. "Trying to get ahead with extra training, Mors? Not without me. I'll join too. I can't let the two of you run circles around me."

Arthur shrugged. "The more, the better."

Manfrey lifted a hand. "Can I watch?"

Oberyn shot him a wink. "Only if you bring the water."

The caravan moved through the heart of Dorne. Towns turned out in celebration, offering fruit, music, and bread. Loreza spoke with fire and clarity. Elia charmed the crowd. Oberyn danced with local girls and challenged retainers to impromptu duels.

And Mors watched it all.

He trained with Arthur in the evenings. The sparring was intense, efficient, almost silent. Arthur didn't speak often, but when he did, it mattered.

"You don't waste movement," Arthur said one night after a bout.

"I hate wasting anything," Mors replied, breathless.

Arthur handed him water. "Good. That's what makes a real fighter."

Three days later, the caravan entered the Red Mountains. The path narrowed into a rocky pass bordered by jagged cliffs.

That's when the attack came.

Shouts. Steel on steel. Sudden movement.

Mountain raiders poured from the rocks, blades flashing. The guards scrambled to form ranks.

Mors didn't wait.

He kicked off the side of a supply wagon, vaulted onto a low ledge, and sprinted across it at full speed. He launched into the air, tucked mid-jump, and landed behind a raider charging a dismounted guard. One strike to the back of the knee. Another to the ribs. Then a quick thrust of his short sword through the throat—the man crumpled.

Another bandit turned. Mors was already moving. He sprinted, jumped, and wall-kicked off a nearby boulder to gain height. In midair, he twisted and drove the blunt end of his spear into the man's shoulder. The raider cried out and dropped his weapon—only for Mors to send a dagger straight into his chest a moment later.

Across the trail, Oberyn was already in motion, dancing between two raiders with his spear flashing. "Left side!" he called. "Archer in the rocks!"

Mors nodded and ran. He scaled a sloped outcrop without slowing, hands finding holds by instinct. He reached the top, vaulted the ridge—and crashed straight into the archer.

The bow flew from the man's grip. Mors punched once, twice, then drove a dagger in to finish it.

As he turned, another attacker lunged from the side. Mors pivoted sharply, ducked under the swing—and then something blurred past his vision.

Arthur Dayne.

One clean cut. The raider collapsed.

Arthur looked over. "Well done," he said.

Down below, Maron moved like a ghost through the chaos. Two enemies dropped before they even realized he was there.

Within minutes, it was over. The surviving raiders broke and fled into the hills.

Loreza rode in, her cloak snapping behind her in the wind. She surveyed the aftermath, then turned to Mors. Her expression remained composed, but her eyes lingered on him with a hint of concern.

"You were sharp," she said. "But let's keep the heroics to a minimum until you're older."

She glanced up at the ridgeline, thoughtful. "We'll need to task the Spears with clearing these mountains. This won't be the last ambush."

Mors nodded absentmindedly, but his attention was on wiping blood from his hands and blades.

'Funny. No one ever mentions how hard it is to clean someone else's blood.'

They cleaned the area in silence, moving methodically, then set up camp nearby as dusk settled in.