Sunspear – Four Weeks After the Fall
The sun cast a sharp gold over Sunspear's high towers as Mors dismounted just outside the courtyard gates. The familiar scent of sun-warmed sandstone and citrus filled the air, grounding him even as his thoughts scattered ahead. Behind him, the sound of hooves slowed. Doran was already speaking with a guard. Elia stretched her legs after the ride. Oberyn and Manfrey were bickering over who had led the tighter formation.
Mors ignored the noise. He stared up at the castle.
'Home,' he thought. But it didn't feel the same. It looked the same, stood just as tall—but somehow, it felt smaller. As if he had outgrown it while it stayed the same.
They walked through the palace with barely a pause, stepping into the throne room just as Princess Loreza finished hearing a final petition. Nobles lined the gallery, most too caught up in court formalities to notice the new arrivals.
But Loreza noticed.
Her gaze swept over her children—and lingered on Mors. She said nothing, only gave a single nod before motioning for the castellan, Prince Maron, to close the session.
They followed her through an arched corridor lined with Dornish tapestries and portraits of past Princes of Dorne, eventually entering the solar where she held private council. Maron arrived soon after, his steps brisk and a small smile on his face, clearly pleased to see them all back.
"About time," he said with a smile. His eyes found Manfrey first—who ran forward for a brief embrace—then settled on Mors. "And you, nephew. Still among the living, I see."
Mors dipped his head, but the ghost of a grin touched his lips. "Mostly."
Maron clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I heard what happened. We feared the worst. The gods must favor your blood."
"Or your stubbornness," Loreza added dryly as she moved past them to her chair.
The room settled as they took their seats. Doran stood beside the table, folding his hands.
"You weren't due to return until next month, so color me surprised when Maron informed me you'd be back early. Did something urgent bring you all home?"
"Mother, I think we've had enough excitement to last us a while," Doran said. "After everything that's happened, we all agreed it was best to return home."
Loreza gave a nod of understanding, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Mors. "Understandable. I'm glad to have you all back in one piece."
Doran hesitated, casting a glance at Mors's expectant face. Then he sighed.
"There is… something else. A request. From Mors."
Loreza raised a brow, the lines around her eyes tightening as she shifted her gaze between them. "Go on."
"He wishes to begin formal training," Doran said evenly. "With the Spears of the Sun."
"Oh?" Oberyn grinned, leaning forward. "Why didn't you say so earlier, little brother? That's a grand idea. I'll be joining as well."
Manfrey gave a small shrug, lifting his hand half-heartedly. "Me too."
Loreza leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting from one face to the next, clearly surprised. "The Spears? At your age?"
"I'm nearly eleven," Mors said, his tone steady.
"And that's still a boy."
"Mother," Doran interjected gently, "he may still be a boy, but his heart is set. He doesn't seek battle—only training and preparation. Oberyn and Manfrey would benefit from it as well."
Loreza exhaled slowly, her fingers curling lightly against the armrest. "Doran, you are the most levelheaded among us—why are you supporting this?"
"Oberyn, you're nearly fourteen. And Manfrey isn't far behind. But Mors…" Loreza's voice softened, her eyes narrowing with maternal scrutiny. "This ambition—does it come from you… or someone else?" Her gaze slid toward Oberyn, who suddenly found the floor very interesting.
"It's mine," Mors said, without a blink.
Loreza's brow lifted. "Why?"
He met her gaze without flinching. "Because peace never lasts. Everything we have—everything we are—can vanish in a moment. All it takes is one mistake, or one enemy with the will to act. I'd rather be a weapon and shield ready to protect this family than a soft-handed prince waiting for others to protect him."
Silence fell.
Even Oberyn stopped smiling.
Doran looked at Mors, surprised. Clearly, he hadn't expected such a response.
Maron broke the silence first. "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken—spoken like a true member of House Martell. But I do agree with my sister: you're still a bit on the young side, Mors."
Loreza nodded slightly at Maron, then turned back to Mors. "Training isn't ceremonial, child. The Spears don't coddle—and neither will I."
"The sooner I can begin, the sooner I can be ready. I don't want to be coddled. I want to be useful."
He paused, then added, "The basic training we currently have is insufficient for that."
Doran nodded once. "He's been preparing already—hidden, I might add. I'd rather guide him properly than risk him overextending himself and getting hurt… or worse. He is a prince of Dorne, after all. Uncle Lewyn should assess him when he returns."
"Lewyn is harsh," Loreza murmured.
"So is the world he'll face," Doran replied.
Another pause.
Finally, Loreza leaned forward, lacing her fingers. "Fourteen. That's when Oberyn and Manfrey may 'officially' join the Spears properly. Until then, all three of you will train under Maron's watch. Physical drills. Weapons forms. Conditioning."
She turned to Maron. "Will you accept that charge?"
Maron inclined his head. "Gladly. I'll put them through the same paces that new recruits for the Spears go through. Maybe harder. Let's see if that commitment still stands after a week."
"Good," Loreza said, then fixed Mors with her gaze again. "And when your uncle Lewyn returns, the final say will be his. If he finds you lacking, this conversation ends. No arguments."
"Understood, Mother," Mors said.
Oberyn glanced at him, a cocky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like we'll be suffering together, brothers!"
Manfrey groaned. "Suns help us all."
Elia finally spoke, shaking her head with mock exasperation. "You're all mad—but at least you'll be mad together. I'll be sure to keep a close watch from under the shade."
Mors looked around the room—at his mother, at his uncle, at his brothers, at his cousin—and let the moment settle over him. A small step forward—one that could build real momentum. At the very least, it was permission to push further and try harder. It was the beginning of something real—something that could grow into the influence he needed. And maybe, one day, he would have the influence and power to actually protect this family.
As they filtered out of the solar, Doran clapped a hand on Mors's shoulder. "You chose your path. Now walk it well. I believe in you."
Mors nodded, his voice low. "I will—and thank you, Brother."
Doran lingered a moment longer at the doorway. "If you ever need to talk—about anything—you can come to us. Don't keep things bottled up, alright?"
Mors met his eyes and gave a small nod. "I promise."
The hallway smelled of warm stone and sun-soaked linen. As they made their way to the Great Hall for a light meal, Oberyn laughed and started teasing Manfrey.
"Quick detour," Oberyn announced. "Spotted a new maid I haven't met yet. Thought I'd be... friendly. Will you be joining me 'again', Manfrey?"
Manfrey laughed awkwardly, shooting a guilty glance at Elia—hoping she hadn't heard, though he wasn't optimistic.
"Spare the poor girl," Elia muttered, rolling her eyes as she stepped ahead. "At least until she's had a meal. Or a warning."
Oberyn only grinned wider, unbothered as ever. "Half the fun is seeing how they react. Besides, who can resist this wonderful prince?"
Mors lingered a step behind them all, walking in rhythm but not entirely among them. His hands stayed at his sides, relaxed but thoughtful. He let their banter float past him, soaking in the rhythm of family without needing to interrupt.
His mind wasn't on food. Or Oberyn's distractions. It was on what had just occurred. The way Loreza's eyes had lingered. The way Maron's voice had softened, even as it pushed. The way Doran had stood—not just beside him, but behind him.
That mattered.
'They're watching now', he thought. 'All of them. Not just what I say—but how I move. How I endure. How I learn.'
That meant no missteps. No wasted effort. Every cut he took in training, every mistake, every bruise—they were going to remember it. Measure him by it. And judge him.
He would give them no excuse to dismiss him again.
As they neared the Great Hall, sunlight slanted through the high windows, painting warm golden shapes across the patterned floor. Mors slowed his pace slightly, letting the others move ahead.
He wasn't hesitation. He was reflection.
'A seat at the table,' he reminded himself.
'Not just to be present—but to have a voice. To prevent the absolute shitstorm coming our way.'
For his family. For House Martell.
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken", he quietly muttered—
"…man those words are catchy."