The feast at the Hightower was as polished as the marble underfoot—warm light from crystal chandeliers, long tables spread with roast duck, lemon-glazed fish, and greens soaked in Arbor oils. Wine flowed freely. Courtiers whispered between courses. Musicians played soft harp melodies while the sea wind stirred banners bearing the burning tower of House Hightower.
Lord Leyton Hightower made his entrance with quiet grandeur. He looked every bit the ancient pillar of Oldtown—regal, unreadable, and slightly faded by time.
He greeted Princess Loreza with a bow deeper than expected, then extended a hand to Prince Maron. "It has been too long since Oldtown hosted royalty from Dorne. You honor us."
Maron bowed slightly. "And we come with the hope of knowing the Reach anew."
Seated beside Leyton were his children. Ser Baelor Hightower, his eldest, was the image of noble poise—tall, chiseled, and awkwardly persistent. His sister Alerie, demure and attentive. Garth, the youngest present, offered little more than a polite nod. Then there was Malora—already watching Mors before he even sat down.
Baelor tried, once again, to charm Elia. He offered compliments, poured her wine, and even stood behind her chair slightly too long after a toast. Elia remained gracious but distant. Her glances toward Mors and Oberyn were brief—but enough to show she was leaning on familiar ground for stability.
Halfway through the meal, the music softened.
Then Malora stood.
She wore robes in strange overlapping greens, embroidered with spirals and symbols only she seemed to understand. Her expression was distant but focused. She walked slowly to the front of the hall.
All conversation fell silent.
She stopped a few paces from Mors and pointed.
"I see you," she said, her voice calm yet unnervingly clear. "The boy who is not just a boy. The pale flame beneath the dark sun."
The room stiffened. Guests glanced at one another, unsure whether to be alarmed or entertained.
"You are the Sun of Dorne," Malora continued, raising a hand now. "You will light the path ahead. You will scorch the cold that seeks to swallow us. Your aura burns too brightly to be contained—it strengthens others simply by existing."
Mors froze mid-motion.
Utensils clinked. Someone coughed. A few lords exchanged wary, puzzled glances.
"I offer myself to your cause," Malora said. "I will follow you. Serve you. Give whatever is needed. And if it must be, I will be your bride."
Mors managed a polite smile, though a cold bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck.
'Too close… far too close.'
He didn't need to look to know Oberyn was watching.
"Well," Oberyn muttered. "That escalated."
Malora returned to her seat without waiting for a response, completely unfazed.
At the high table, Alerie Hightower—poised, quiet, and far more grounded than her sister—blushed and looked down. She said nothing for the rest of the evening, but Mors caught her glancing at him three more times before dessert.
Elia leaned in, her lips barely moving, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Quite the aura you're giving off. Might want to dial the flame down a notch."
Mors sighed. "Please don't start. I'm already bracing for Oberyn—I don't need you joining in."
Elia chuckled but said no more.
Elia chuckled softly but let it go, her smile lingering as she turned back to her cup.
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Later that evening, Loreza's chambers were secured. Guards swept the room and shut the doors. No attendants. No retainers. Only family.
Loreza stood at the center, Maron to her right. Seated on cushions around the room were Oberyn, Elia, Mors, and Manfrey.
"We've traveled half the Reach," she began, "and now you've seen with your own eyes what they value, what they fear. I want to hear your thoughts. Speak freely."
Oberyn raised a hand with a smirk. "I think Baelor's still trying to fart out his dignity."
Manfrey laughed. Elia elbowed Oberyn—hard.
Elia took the lead, her tone measured. "Oldtown carries itself with pride. They act modest, but they're judging everything. Especially us."
Loreza nodded. "And?"
"They don't like how different we are. But they're curious."
Mors sat straighter. "Oldtown isn't flashy, but they're dangerous. They hold more power than they show. The Faith. The Citadel. The fleets. Even without armies, they influence the flow of ideas. They wait. They study. And if they strike, it's planned years in advance."
Loreza's eyes sharpened. "Good."
Manfrey cleared his throat. "They're... watching how we act. I think they're testing if we're worth trusting."
Maron turned to his son, surprised—but nodded with quiet approval.
Loreza walked slowly behind them. "You're learning. All of you. Good."
She stopped, then looked at Elia. "You've had no fewer than ten marriage offers since we left Sunspear."
Elia blinked. "Ten?"
Oberyn scoffed. "And I've had what? Two? Tragic."
Loreza raised a brow. "You've had two. Manfrey's had two as well."
Manfrey nearly dropped the cup in his hand.
"And Mors..." she continued.
Everyone turned to look.
"More than any of you. Nearly twenty offers—formal and informal. And most aren't asking for a child to wed. They're trying to claim a future."
Mors said nothing. But the weight of it pressed quietly in his chest.
Loreza finished: "We must not mistake attention for opportunity. Or opportunity for trust."
She looked at each of them, one by one.
"Tomorrow, we leave Oldtown. The Westerlands come next. Stay sharp. You're not just symbols anymore. You're weapons. Tools. And in time… rulers."
Oberyn leaned back, wearing a sly grin. "By the way—are we counting Malora Hightower's… offering as a marriage proposal?"
Mors let out a quiet groan, running a hand over his face. There was humor in it—but also a flicker of unease.
The others chuckled, some nervously.
Loreza exhaled and glanced at Maron, brow creasing.
Maron spoke calmly. "She's called the Mad Maid for a reason. Brilliant, perhaps—but clearly not all there. It's not something worth pursuing."
Loreza nodded, then added, "Alerie, on the other hand, seemed particularly taken with Mors. But she's already promised to Lord Mace Tyrell. Best not to speak of it. No need to stir rumors where none are helpful."
Maron smirked. "Alright then—Sun of Dorne—and the rest of you, get some sleep. We stop at the Shield Islands next before heading to Casterly Rock."
Mors groaned quietly.
The others burst out laughing.
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The next morning, sails filled with a steady wind as the Martell party departed Oldtown. Farewells were given with practiced formality. Lord Leyton offered vague blessings, Baelor tried one last time to kiss Elia's hand—and she politely turned to fix her hair instead. Malora simply stared at Mors from the balcony without blinking.
Mors didn't wave back.
They boarded two sleek ships provided by House Hightower, with guards and retainers stowing supplies below deck. The journey to the Shield Islands took less than a day with the sea calm and skies bright. By evening, green shores came into view—Oakenshield, the largest of the four isles and home to House Grimm.
Stone walls rose from a cliffside fortress overlooking the harbor. Ships bearing golden oaks and silver anchors rocked gently in the port.
As the Martell party disembarked, they were met at the docks by a line of armored retainers and a tall, broad-shouldered man in his later fifties—salt-gray hair, sun-worn skin, and a naval captain's bearing. His surcoat bore a golden oak on storm-blue.
He stepped forward with a respectful nod, but his face was unusually somber. "Princess Loreza. I am Lord Addison Grimm, Lord of Oakenshield and Warden of the Western Waters. Welcome to my island."
Loreza disembarked first, Maron beside her. Mors followed with Elia, Oberyn, and Manfrey close behind.
"Lord Grimm," Loreza greeted, noting the stiffness in his shoulders. "We thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
Lord Addison bowed his head but didn't return the courtesy smile.
"There's… news," he said. "From Casterly Rock."
Maron's eyes narrowed. "What kind of news?"
Addison looked directly at Loreza. "Lady Joanna Lannister has died. In childbirth."
The words struck like a cold wave.
Even Oberyn's usual smirk vanished.
"The child?" Loreza asked, steady but cold.
"A boy. He lived. But…" Lord Grimm hesitated, his voice dropping lower. "They say he was born twisted. Deformed. Some whisper it's the gods' punishment—for Lord Tywin's pride."
A sharp silence followed.
Elia blinked, stunned. Manfrey stared at the ground. Mors glanced at his siblings, watching their faces.
Loreza took a slow breath, then nodded once. "Thank you. We will rest tonight and sail out at dawn."
Lord Grimm gave another bow and gestured toward the keep behind him. "Rooms have been prepared. But you may want to keep a tighter guard near the servants. Rumors spread quickly here—and not all of them are kind."
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That night, the Martells sat in hushed conversation in one of the guest halls. No feast. No laughter. Just the crackle of the hearth and the weight of bad news hanging over them.
Oberyn broke the silence first, his voice low. "The proudest man in Westeros just lost his wife… and gained a son he might wish hadn't survived."
Loreza didn't look up from the fire. "He'll never show it in public. But in private… this will shake Casterly Rock."
Mors watched her carefully. For once, she looked tired.
"Mother," he asked, "how are you holding up?"
She exhaled, slowly. "What can I say? I thought I'd be reunited with a friend—to celebrate a birth, maybe even finalize a betrothal between our children."
She paused. "Instead, I'll be arriving for a funeral."
Mors didn't know what to feel. Grief, maybe. Pity. A strange, distant anger.
He only knew one thing—
this changed everything.