Early 273 AC
The gates of Sunspear loomed like a mirage made real, golden against the midday sun. After nearly half a year on the road and sea, the Martell entourage rode wearily into the palace courtyard, their banners hanging limp, their cloaks dusty and sweat-soaked. What should have felt like triumph tasted instead like sand.
Mors remained quiet atop his saddle, eyes tracing the familiar outlines of Sunspear's towers and arches. The wind carried the scent of sun-warmed stone and salt—home. But something in him had changed. He wasn't returning as the boy who had left.
When they departed, he had stood just under 5'5" (165 cm); now, at thirteen, he measured a solid 5'8" (173 cm)—only inches shy of the 5'10" (178 cm) he'd reached in his past life.
But the difference wasn't just physical. He moved differently. Stood differently. Thought differently. The journey had stripped away any illusion that this world resembled the one he came from. Whatever maturity he once believed he had—it hadn't been enough. Not for this. And he would never be the same because of it.
He'd also come to realize something else—something unsettling. He was more important than he'd initially understood. His bloodline, his appearance, the way strangers stared—he was too desirable for this realm. Politically. Symbolically. Visibly. Outside the walls of Sunspear, where he'd been shielded—insulated by family and familiarity—that truth had become undeniable: people didn't see a boy. They saw opportunity. Leverage. A name that could shift alliances. A face that whispered fire and conquest.
And that realization worried him—scared him, even. He already had enough to carry. Enough to prepare for. He couldn't do this alone.
Servants rushed forward, bowing low, offering cool water and citrus-scented towels. Loreza dismounted first, stretching her spine with a wince. Doran was waiting near the western arch, hands clasped behind his back, robes crisp and posture impeccable.
"Welcome home," he said simply.
Loreza offered him a tired but genuine smile. "We're grateful for it."
Elia and Oberyn greeted him warmly. Manfrey gave a quiet nod. Mors stepped forward last.
Doran's gaze rested on him for a breath longer than was proper.
"You've grown," Doran said.
Mors inclined his head. "And you've kept the sand from swallowing Sunspear."
That drew a faint smirk from the prince.
"Yes," Doran replied. "Had to throw away a couple of brooms to achieve it."
Then, leaning toward Loreza, he murmured something low, inaudible to the rest. Her brows lifted slightly, then settled. She glanced at Mors—just for a moment—before schooling her expression.
"Come," she said. "A light meal is waiting. Then rest. Doran, Maron, and I have something urgent to tend to. We won't be long."
No one argued. They were too tired. But Mors noticed the looks.
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The southern solar offered welcome relief from the heat. Cool tiles kissed bare feet, and sea breezes curled lazily through the open arches. A long table awaited them, set with platters of lemon-spiced lamb, honeyed olives, baked figs, and chilled wine.
The younger Martells ate in near silence until Oberyn broke it with a sigh.
"I can't wait to spend a month at the Water Gardens," he said, already sounding half-drunk on the idea. "I hear we have some new servants. Manfrey, you'll be joining me, right?"
Manfrey gave a nervous smile, glancing toward Elia before answering. "I'll accompany you... to make sure things don't get out of hand."
Elia rolled her eyes but chose not to comment.
Oberyn smirked, then turned his attention to Mors. He gave him a once-over, humming theatrically. "You're thirteen, but you look much older now... I think it's time I gave you some other kinds of training, Mors. What do you say?"
He smiled like a cat who'd just invented mischief itself.
Elia stiffened instantly, rising from her seat like a desert scorpion ready to strike. "You will do no such thing, Oberyn. Mors is not like you. And just because he looks older doesn't mean he isn't still thirteen."
Oberyn raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, sister. It was a joke. I would neeeever corrupt our dear baby brother." He winked at Mors with exaggerated flair.
Mors couldn't help but chuckle. For a moment, his earlier worries melted away.
After the laughter subsided and conversation settled, Elia leaned back and said thoughtfully, "Did anyone else notice the way Doran looked at Mors?"
Oberyn poured himself more wine, feigning indifference. "Jealousy, I'd say. I would be too, if I saw hair that silver and eyes that sharp."
Elia ignored him. "No, it was... different. He said something to Mother, and then she looked at you." She turned her gaze on Mors. "Do you know what that was about?"
Mors shook his head. "Not a clue."
Manfrey looked between them. "Maybe more marriage proposals arrived?"
"Or maybe someone spotted a new scandal brewing in court," Oberyn offered with a grin. "If it's a matter of love, I'm available. I fix hearts and break rules."
"You break heads more than hearts," Elia muttered.
Still, the unease lingered. Whatever had passed between Doran and Loreza hadn't been idle—and they all knew it.
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The next morning, Mors rose early. Sunspear was still in those quiet hours—the heat not yet oppressive, the hallways bathed in soft, golden light.
He moved through the palace like a shadow, making his way toward the training yard. Six months of courtesies and political posturing had left his limbs aching for motion.
As he approached, the rhythmic clash of sparring met his ears.
Lewyn. Maron. And someone else.
Mors paused beneath the archway.
The stranger was tall—perhaps an inch or two taller than Lewyn and Maron—with broad shoulders and a grounded, deliberate stance. His face was square-jawed and lined with age. Dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, clung damp to his brow. Despite the years, he moved with the honed precision of a man long accustomed to violence.
He was sparring with Ser Lewyn Martell. Maron stood nearby, observing from the shade.
Lewyn and the stranger circled each other like predators. Neither spoke. Their silence was sharp; their eyes locked in the language of warriors too experienced for empty words.
Lewyn struck first—quick as a viper—his spear slicing through the air. The stranger caught the blow on his shield, grunting, then swept low with his sword, aiming to unbalance. Lewyn skipped back, light on his feet despite the weight of his armor and age.
The stranger advanced, his longsword flashing in a clean arc. Lewyn twisted aside, letting the blade pass, and rammed the butt of his spear into the man's ribs. The impact cracked like a staff against stone. The stranger staggered but did not fall. A grim smile flickered across his face.
"I can read you better now," he muttered.
Lewyn's eyes narrowed. "Getting cocky, are we?"
They clashed again. Steel screamed. The stranger fought like a soldier—grounded, disciplined, economical. Lewyn, like a Dornish prince—fluid, agile, unpredictable. One was forged in battlefields, the other in sun and sand.
Minutes passed. Neither yielded.
Lewyn feinted high, then dropped into a sweeping leg strike. The stranger narrowly leapt over it, pivoting in the air and slashing at Lewyn's thigh on the way down. The blade nicked cloth—no more.
Lewyn hissed and jabbed with his spear. The stranger slapped it aside with his shield and charged in, too close for the spear's reach. His pommel arced toward Lewyn's jaw. Lewyn ducked and drove an elbow into his gut.
They staggered back, panting.
Sweat gleamed on their faces. Bruises bloomed like paint. A cut bled at the stranger's temple. Lewyn's lip was split. But neither looked ready to yield.
Mors had crept closer, drawn in by the display. He was almost at the edge of the yard when the stranger looked up—and froze.
His jaw slackened. His breath caught. His expression shifted—haunted, almost reverent.
In the same instant, Lewyn pivoted and landed a clean strike across the stranger's face. The man's left eye began to swell as the spar came to a sudden halt.
The stranger shot Lewyn a resentful look.
Lewyn just chuckled and stepped back without apology—especially once he saw Mors standing nearby.
Maron sighed—apparently, these kinds of interruptions had become routine in their absence. He stepped forward.
"Mors. You're early. Good."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the stranger.
"This is Ser Jeremy Norridge. He was a... close friend of your father. He's come to Sunspear to see you."
Mors blinked. "My father?"
Jeremy seemed to stir from his trance, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Daeron Targaryen," he said, his voice gravelly. "I rode with him. Fought beside him. We were... friends. The best of friends."
There was a hesitation on the word —too heavy to ignore.
Lewyn said nothing but watched the interaction with a sharp gaze.
Jeremy added, "If you have time, I'd walk with you."
Mors nodded, curiosity outweighing the wariness.
This man—apparently a friend of his father—had just gone toe-to-toe with Ser Lewyn Martell, Captain of the Spears of the Sun and one of the most formidable fighters Mors had ever seen.
And he'd come all this way... for him?
Mors was intrigued.