Sunspear
POV I — Loreza Martell
The words dropped like a blade into her chest.
"He might not make it."
Princess Loreza Martell did not flinch.
Not in front of her court.
Not when her first husband died from wounds taken fighting pirates in the Stepstones.
Not even when her second husband—and best friend—perished in the Tragedy at Summerhall, just as she'd begun to care for him more than a friend.
She had never allowed herself to break.
But now—as her brother's voice faded into silence—her knees wanted to follow.
She stood high above Sunspear in the eastern solar, still as stone, robes heavy with titles she'd never asked for.
"Tell me everything, Maron."
Prince Maron Martell bowed his head, the usual calm in his voice replaced by tension.
"Thrown from his mount. He hit the ground hard. Head and neck injuries. The maesters suspect swelling in the spine… but they're not certain. He hasn't woken since."
Loreza exhaled. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers curled around the marble edge of the table.
"Where?"
"The dunes near the Water Gardens. He was racing Oberyn and Manfrey—"
"Of course he was," she snapped. Her voice cracked.
"Of course Oberyn goaded him into it. And no one thought to stop them? Not a single guard said, 'Perhaps not, my princes—not across shifting dunes without saddles?'"
Maron stepped forward.
"Sister—Loreza. This isn't the time for blame."
"No?" Her voice rose, sharp and ragged.
"Then when? After I've buried another husband? Another child?"
Her composure cracked.
"First Father. Then Lewyn. Then that fire that took sweet Daeron—"
She choked on the name. Her voice became a whisper wrapped in thorns.
"If Mors dies… if he dies…"
Her hands shook.
"I won't survive it."
Maron placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
"He's still breathing. That means there's still hope."
She turned toward him, eyes red but defiant.
"He is my youngest. He grew up without a father. He carries all we've lost. His blood is fire and river—or ice, as Daeron used to joke. Dragon and Rhoynar."
Her voice dropped, trembling.
"If the gods want to take him now, they'll have to drag me with him."
Maron gently turned her from the window.
"Then don't let them."
His voice was quiet but firm.
"Don't feed your fear. Let the maesters work. Let the gods be silent. You—breathe."
She shook her head. She couldn't speak.
"You need to be by his side," he said gently.
"I'll remain here. I'll see to everything else."
Her lips pressed together—trembling with something between rage and despair.
"But first, you must rest," Maron continued.
"You're no use to him shattered. And Loreza… remember who he is."
"He is a Martell. He has Targaryen fire in his blood, Rhoynish resilience in his bones. He will rise. I believe that."
For the first time, she let herself lean into him. Just a little.
"Then believe for both of us," she whispered.
"Until I can again."
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Water Gardens – Training Grounds
POV II — Oberyn Martell
The sparring yard was blistered with heat and fury.
Oberyn struck, missed. Manfrey countered. Oberyn stumbled.
Again.
The clash of their wooden spears echoed hollow and false. Nothing landed right. No balance, no rhythm. No control.
"You're dropping your back foot again," Manfrey snapped.
"Don't tell me what I'm doing wrong," Oberyn hissed, circling.
"Then stop doing it!"
They crashed together again—one, two, three strikes—then the master-at-arms barked, "Enough!"
The spears clattered to the ground.
"You want to kill each other?" the old knight growled, stepping between them.
"Because you're well on your way. This isn't a game. This is steel-in-your-belly training. And you—" he jabbed a finger at Oberyn, "—are swinging like a drunk sellsword."
Oberyn breathed hard through clenched teeth. Sweat stung his eyes. His hands were blistered, skin torn open from training without gloves. But he didn't care.
"Get out of the sun," the knight snapped.
"Drink. Rest. Get your heads on straight before you end up in the healer's tent next to your little brother."
That landed like a punch. Oberyn's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he turned away.
Manfrey followed, silent.
They sat in the shade beside the sparring circle. A servant passed a flask of water, which Oberyn barely touched.
"He's not dead," Manfrey said quietly. "He's still breathing."
"He wouldn't be there if it weren't for me," Oberyn bit back.
"You didn't throw him off the horse."
"I dared him to. I laughed as we raced. I should've been the one who fell. I should've—"
"You were riding beside him, not dragging him behind," Manfrey said.
"He made his own choice."
Oberyn shook his head, jaw clenched.
"He's ten. I was supposed to be watching him. Not treating him like another rider. Like another guard."
Manfrey didn't answer. Just passed him the flask again.
Oberyn took it this time. Drank deeply. Then stared out at the red stone walls, eyes dark with guilt.
"If he dies," he said, voice low, "I will never forgive myself."
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Water Gardens – Mors's Room
POV III — Doran Martell
The chamber was still, save for the rustle of Elia's silks as she shifted, curled beside the bed. Her head rested on her arm, face tear-streaked, but quiet now.
Doran stood behind her, near the foot of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Mors's chest.
Every breath felt like a battle won. Every shallow exhale a tremor.
Maesters whispered behind him. Poultices were changed. A cooling cloth pressed to the boy's brow.
Doran did not speak.
He had always been the careful one. The steady hand. The observer. The heir who planned while others played.
But now?
He had not planned for this.
His brother—his youngest brother—lay still and pale and silent. And Doran, Crown Prince of Dorne, could do nothing.
Elia's fingers twitched, brushing Mors's hand.
"He's strong," Doran said softly.
She didn't look up, just nodded.
"He has more fight in him than any boy his age. You'll see. He'll come back."
"I don't want him to fight," she whispered. "I just want him to live."
Doran closed his eyes for a long moment.
'So do I. But I should have guided him better. I should have said no to the race. Should have taught him caution. Should have—'
He opened them again and let the guilt fade back into silence. There would be time to examine his failings later.
For now, all that mattered was the boy in the bed.
"Rest, Elia," he said. "I'll watch him."
She didn't argue. Just lay her head beside Mors again.
And Doran stood sentinel in the flickering candlelight, willing the boy to breathe again.