Mid–284 AC — Sunspear, Kingdom of Dorne
It was a warm day. The heavy Dornish sun pressed down upon the sand, its heat shimmering in waves that distorted the horizon. Through the haze, a line of carriages emerged, moving slowly toward Sunspear. At last, the Stark host dismounted from the Dornish coaches that had borne them from the port. Leading the procession was the Lord Hand, Ser Jeremy Norridge, having gone to receive them and now guiding them toward the grand entrance of Sunspear—where King Mors Martell and his family awaited their arrival.
Mors stood with a welcoming smile beside Queen Ashara Dayne and her sisters-in-all-but-blood, Ladies Malora Hightower and Alyssa Uller. Prince Daeron Martell fidgeted beside his father, while Ashara, Malora, and Alyssa each cradled a babe—Syrena, Luna, and Loreza.
To the side waited the extended Martell family and their closest lords and friends. Lord Beric Dayne stood beside Lady Allyria, who watched the approaching northerners with quiet curiosity. Prince Manfrey lingered with his family, while Oberyn was surrounded by his lively brood. Elia stood beside him, flanked by Lord Bedwyck Uller. Behind them, the Eclipse Guard—Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Garth Hightower, and Ser Qerrin Toland—stood in gleaming white, the solemn shadow of the royal household, lending the gathering a dignity befitting a king's court.
Oberyn smirked. "I hope the other Starks can handle the Dornish heat. I'd hate to have to toss them into the fountain to cool off—like we did with Ned."
Bedwyck fought to keep a straight face at the memory.
Elia turned to her brother, eyes blazing. "Oberyn! You're an adult. Don't jest when the King of another realm is about to dismount with his family. Don't make Mors look bad!"
Oberyn lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I give, I give—I'll behave." Yet the grin that followed made several present want to strike him.
Mors glanced toward his brother's antics, then to the gathered kin and lords before turning back to his wife, lovers, and children with a quiet smile.
'My family,' he thought, warmth softening his features.
King Brandon Stark approached first with his queen, Catelyn Tully, who carried their two-year-old son, Prince Rickard Stark. Walking just behind them was Princess Lyanna Stark, looking around Sunspear with wonder. By all accounts, she should have been at Storm's End to spend time with King Robert Baratheon before her upcoming marriage later that year but it seems she's been very resistant to leave Winterfell and spend time with her betrothed.
Prince Benjen Stark followed, though his attention was clearly elsewhere—fixed on Allyria Dayne, whose smile seemed to have robbed him of both composure and footing. He stumbled mid-step, drawing a chuckle from the Dornish onlookers.
Mors caught the exchange and leaned slightly toward Ashara, smirking.
"Looks like the youngest Stark has fallen for Ria's charms."
Ashara returned the smirk, pride in her tone. "Of course. She's practically a smaller version of me. I'd be disappointed if they didn't look. Too bad she's more interested in swords and forming her 'Queen's Guard' for me than in romance."
Finally, as a Stark must always remain in Winterfell, Prince Eddard Stark had stayed behind with his wife, Lady Alys Waynwood—daughter of the Lady of Ironoaks and cousin to Queen Alyssa Waynwood, wife of King Denys Arryn.
Brandon reached them at last. Mors stepped forward with open arms.
"By bread and salt, I extend the peace of my table and the warmth of my roof."
Brandon smiled and bowed his head. "And by bread and salt, I honor your peace and keep it."
The two clasped forearms in a soldier's greeting.
"King Brandon," said Mors, grinning, "it's been a long while. I'm glad you could finally make it down here. So much has changed since we last met."
Brandon chuckled wistfully. "Aye, much indeed. We've all had to grow up and lead our realms—though you started long before the rest of us."
They shared a laugh at that, memories briefly softening their expressions.
Mors gestured to his family. "I'm sure I don't need to introduce Ashara—that's how we met, after all." He shot Brandon a teasing grin that drew a flicker of cold sweat from the northern king and a curious glance from Queen Catelyn. "This here is my little sun dragon, Prince Daeron Martell. And these are my princesses: Syrena, Luna, and Loreza."
Brandon smiled warmly. "Well met. I see Sunspear overflows with new life."
Catelyn, still studying the Dornish gathering, spoke hesitantly. "Dorne truly is different. Even the… the bastards stand beside the trueborn children without issue."
Her remark drew laughter from the Martells, leaving her bewildered.
"Apologies, Queen Catelyn," Mors said, amused. "Yes, Dorne is different. We love more freely, live more openly, and embrace all as equal—but to correct you, none of my children are bastards. They are all trueborn."
"I—I don't understand," she said, confusion deepening.
Ashara smiled gently. "What Mors means is that Malora and Alyssa are my sisters. His children with them are recognized as such—bearing the Martell name. I am the queen and first wife, yes, but their bonds are just as real."
Malora lifted Luna proudly. "The Sun of Dorne warms us all!"
Catelyn blinked as if question marks were popping above her head.
"But then what about them?" she asked, pointing at Oberyn's gathered children.
Oberyn spread his arms with mock grandeur. "What about them? They're perfect!" He ruffled young Maron's hair, earning an indignant pout from the boy.
Mors chuckled. "However they were born, they're my nieces and nephews. They carry my blood, and that makes them Martells—family. In Dorne, no one is judged for the circumstances of their birth. And if legitimacy ever became necessary…" He allowed a teasing pause, his smile turning easy and confident. "Well, it just so happens the one with the power to grant it is me."
Brandon raised a calming hand to his wife. "Easy, Cat. Different realm, different ways."
Catelyn bowed her head quickly. "My apologies, King Mors. I meant no offense."
Mors waved a hand dismissively, his tone warm. "None taken. We're well aware the rest of the realm views things differently to the Dornish."
Lyanna, watching the exchange with interest, folded her arms and smirked. "That's right, Queen Tully, you should calm down. And since the Champion of the Seven himself approves of it, maybe we should adopt their custom too." Her tone dripped with mischief.
Catelyn looked horrified at the idea, which sent Oberyn into a fit of laughter.
"Oh, I like her," he said. "The pup's got spunk!"
Mors shook his head, chuckling. "Alright, let's get our guests settled. We'll have a feast later."
As the party began moving toward the palace, Brandon lingered.
"Can we talk now?" he asked. "With this 'Council of Kings' approaching—and your letter speaking of important matters for the North and all of Westeros—my curiosity's been gnawing at me since I first read it. I'd rather not wait until morning."
Mors arched a brow. "You've just arrived. You'd rather not rest first?"
Brandon waved the notion away. "Plenty of time for rest later."
Mors grinned. "Very well. Let's go to my solar. We've just perfected a new drink I think you'll enjoy."
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A moment later, they arrived at the King's Solar and took their seats. Mors went to his dispensary, unlocked a small ornate chest, and drew out a bottle of amber liquid. He poured it carefully into two carved crystal glasses.
"A new Dornish creation," he said, handing one to Brandon. "Made from the finest Dornish ingredients—with a few rare elements the Hightowers helped us source. After much trial and error, we finally perfected the distillation. Brace yourself—it's got far more bite than that northern wine you're used to."
Brandon arched an eyebrow, eyeing the drink with curiosity. He lifted it, gave it a brief sniff, then took a cautious sip. His eyes widened.
"Seven hells… smoother than I expected," he said, letting out a low whistle. "But that aftertaste—it burns like fire."
Mors smiled, clearly pleased. "It's the honey—from the Water Gardens. The bees feed on citrus blossoms; that's what gives it that sharp finish. Every drop's worth its weight in gold. We'll sell a cheaper blend through Oldtown—Reach honey for Reach purses—but this one stays Dornish. Sunfire Reserve, we call it. Exclusive to Sunspear, can't be acquired anywhere else."
He paused, his grin turning sly. "It'll remain a rare and limited reserve," he said lightly, "though… for the right price, I might be persuaded to part with a case or two."
Brandon chuckled. "So you've found a way to make peace profitable."
"Peace," Mors said, swirling the glass, "is always easier to sell when it tastes like this."
Brandon took another slow sip, savoring it. "Might you be willing to part with some for me?"
"Already done," Mors replied. "A case will be loaded onto your ship before you leave. But if you want more…"
Brandon smirked. "Then perhaps we'll speak of trade. A little Dornish fire could warm the North nicely."
"Let's speak more on it later this week," Mors said, raising his glass toward Brandon in a friendly salute.
"Perfect." Brandon also raised in glass then leaned back, finishing his glass with a satisfied sigh. Silence settled for a moment—comfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then his tone shifted, quiet but intent.
"So," he said, meeting Mors's eyes. "What is this important matter you wrote of? If anyone else had sent such a message, I wouldn't have thought much about it—but coming from you…"
Mors leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. "Aye, that's the case… Tell me, Brandon—what do you know of dragon dreams?"
Brandon blinked, caught off guard by the question. He gave a small, uncertain laugh. "You know, that always sounded like Old Nan tales to me." He paused, realizing Mors might not know the name. "Old Nan was our caretaker in Winterfell. We grew up hearing her stories—some frightening, some absurd—but with what I've seen in recent years… maybe there's truth in a few of them."
He leaned forward, thoughtful now. "If I remember correctly, one of the Targaryens had that gift. It's what allowed them to escape the Doom, isn't it?"
Mors nodded. "That's the heart of it. Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the destruction of Old Valyria in her sleep. Her family believed her, left everything behind, and fled to Dragonstone. When the Doom came, they were the only dragonlords who survived. The lesson, Brandon, isn't just in the dream—it's that her kin listened."
Brandon studied him in silence, the weight of understanding dawning. His expression hardened into seriousness.
"Mors… are you implying you have that ability?" His voice lowered, uneasy. "And you've—" He stopped as realization hit, eyes widening. "Seven hells, you've seen something. Something that concerns the North… and all of Westeros."
Mors's smile was faint, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's right," he said quietly.
Brandon, almost impatient, said, "Well, don't keep me in suspense—what is it?"
Mors looked straight at him. "The Long Night."
Brandon froze, the color draining from his face. "The… Long Night? As in—the White Walkers?"
Mors nodded once, solemnly. "It will come again."
He stood abruptly and began pacing, his mind racing. Mors remained seated, nursing his drink, giving him time to process.
Brandon muttered to himself, "So it's true… gods, if it's true they'll come from beyond the Wall. Then the Wall—it needs to be reinforced! The Night's Watch has fallen to ruin, and now with the kingdoms divided…" He stopped, realization striking. "I even took the Gift from them…"
"Brandon," Mors said quietly. "Brandon!"
The Northern king finally stopped pacing, exhaling sharply. "Sorry… this is—" He sat down heavily and finished his drink in one gulp.
Mors nodded solemnly. "I know. I've been preparing for a long time."
Brandon looked up, surprised. Mors's expression didn't waver.
"The Hightowers are with me," Mors continued. "They've been preparing quietly as well. It's one of the reasons I avoided needless killing during the war. We'll need every man we can muster—especially Northerners."
Brandon leaned forward. "You have a way, then? Some plan to stop them?"
Mors hesitated. "Not completely. I know they're vulnerable to Valyrian steel, but much else remains uncertain. We need more study—and more testing. Lord Leyton has been helping from Oldtown, but we'll need to expand that work. Reinforcing the Wall will be important, yes, but not just with men. I've developed strategies that allow for rapid response to threats. I'll share them with you during the week. But at some point…" He looked up, meeting Brandon's eyes. "We'll need to send an expedition beyond the Wall."
Brandon's voice dropped to a whisper. "To find one."
Mors nodded.
Brandon rubbed his brow, processing the enormity of it all. "And Benjen was actually considering joining the Watch…" He let out a humorless laugh. "To think I might see this in my lifetime. Wait—it is in my lifetime, isn't it?"
Mors rubbed his chin in thought. "I'm not certain. Dragon dreams are never clear. But I know I'll be there when it comes. I estimate around the turn of the century."
Brandon's eyes widened. "…Fifteen to twenty years."
Mors nodded silently, then refilled their glasses.
Brandon stood for a moment, deep in thought, before finally sitting again. He didn't touch his drink right away. When he did, it was with resolve. "Then the North will stand with Dorne," he said firmly. "We'll follow your lead—whatever must be done. For the future of my family, the North, and all of Westeros."
Mors smiled faintly, raising his glass. "Then for the future of our families—Dorne and Westeros."
Their glasses met with a soft chime.
Brandon took a long breath. "We'll need the other realms involved."
"Aye," Mors agreed. "I'll work on Denys. The Council of Kings will be a good place to connect with him and the others. You can speak with your goodfather, Hoster Tully. Leyton will manage the Reach, though Olenna may only care for profit and advantage for now. The Rock and the Stormlands…" He shook his head. "We'll see. As for the Iron Isles—we can forget about them."
The two kings remained in quiet discussion until the hour of the feast drew near, forcing them to postpone further talk. Unseen by the world, they had begun to shape the defense of a realm that did not yet know it was at war.
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As Mors made his way to his chambers to change for the feast, he stopped short near the training grounds. Below, in the sunlit yard, Allyria Dayne was sparring with Lyanna Stark. The rhythmic clatter of wooden swords echoed through the warm afternoon air.
Several onlookers had gathered around the railing. The ladies watched with a mix of curiosity and alarm—Ashara Dayne stood beside Catelyn Tully and Alyssa Uller, while Benjen Stark hovered near the edge, visibly anxious. Ser Arthur Dayne stood nearby, arms crossed, keeping a watchful eye to ensure the match didn't go too far.
As Mors approached, he caught part of the conversation.
"Maybe we should stop this," Catelyn said, wringing her hands. "If they were to get hurt—"
Alyssa cut in, smiling. "Don't worry, Queen Catelyn. Allyria's been training with some of the best knights in the realm—Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, even King Mors himself. She can handle herself. And from the looks of it, though Princess Lyanna's style is a little unrefined, she's got raw talent."
Catelyn sighed softly. "Yes… but she's a lady, and soon to be a queen. This isn't proper."
Mors joined them just then, amused. "What's not proper, Queen Catelyn? Having the ability to defend themselves?"
Catelyn faltered, searching for a reply, but only shook her head, murmuring, "It's just… different."
Mors smiled faintly and turned his gaze toward the field. The two girls circled each other, wooden swords raised. Allyria, barely five foot four, reminded him strikingly of a young Ashara—though where Ashara had eventually outgrown her tomboy years, Allyria seemed to lean further into them. Her pale, sun-touched skin, violet eyes, and dark hair gave her a dangerous sort of beauty, something halfway between innocence and intensity.
Benjen, of course, was staring outright—mouth slightly open, eyes wide.
Mors smirked. 'Careful, boy, or a fly will—'
The thought wasn't finished before Benjen jerked back with a startled cough, swatting at his mouth.
'Seven save me,' Mors thought, fighting a grin. 'It actually did.'
Lyanna, on the other hand, radiated wild energy. Her long, dark hair spilled freely down her back, as untamed as her movements. She was taller—about five foot seven—slim and athletic, her grey eyes sharp with concentration. She lacked Allyria's refinement, but her speed and spirit made up for it. Every strike came from instinct and passion.
The girls exchanged blows in quick succession until Allyria deftly turned aside a thrust and tapped Lyanna's shoulder.
Lyanna stepped back, breathless but grinning. "Let's go again! I'll win this time."
"Maybe tomorrow, Princess," Mors called out, still smiling. "We've a feast waiting, and it'd be a shame to miss it."
Lyanna turned to him eagerly. "King Mors! Can I train with your Kingsguard like Allyria does?"
"Lyanna," Catelyn began, flustered. "Let's not put His Grace on the spot—"
"Nonsense," Mors said easily. "As long as they're willing, I won't forbid it. You can join our daily training if you wish. Allyria can show you the ropes."
Lyanna brightened instantly. "Yes! Thank you, King Mors. Um… could we spar too? Eddard and Brandon wouldn't stop talking about how good you are."
Mors laughed, shaking his head. "We'll see how tomorrow goes."
Lyanna beamed, turning back to Allyria, who offered her a respectful nod. The onlookers began to disperse as the sun dipped lower over Sunspear, and Mors finally continued on his way—smiling to himself at the thought that, between the wolf and the star, the next generation was already sharpening its claws.
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The feast that evening was intimate yet lively. Mors found himself seated beside Queen Catelyn, and though many of her views were more conservative than his taste allowed, he had to admit she was a thoughtful conversationalist—sharp, polite, and loyal. As long as Brandon didn't saddle her with a bastard, he supposed she would remain sane enough.
He smiled faintly. Whatever his memories from another life said about her, this was reality—not some show.
King Brandon, for his part, had grown into a fine man. His maturity was clear for all to see, yet he still carried the easy charm of a natural leader—somewhere between Mors's measured poise and Oberyn's flair for mischief.
Mors couldn't help but be amused watching young Benjen Stark—seventeen and clearly smitten—try to strike up conversation with Allyria Dayne. Somehow, it had turned into a sparring match that ended with Benjen red-faced and breathless while Allyria barely looked winded. Brandon shook his head more than once at his brother's antics, though Mors could sense the pride beneath his exasperation. Brandon had mentioned earlier that Benjen had spoken of joining the Night's Watch—an idea both he and Eddard opposed. Bringing him south, Brandon hoped, might broaden the boy's horizons… and perhaps his sense of reason.
The feast ended without drama, but it left both families closer than before.
Catelyn, though initially uneasy about Dorne's open customs and its many so-called bastards, had softened by night's end. Seeing the affection the Martells shared with their kin—trueborn or not—forced her to quietly question a few of her northern certainties.
The days that followed passed swiftly.
Lyanna joined the morning drills, her enthusiasm winning over even the gruffest of guards. On the second morning, she finally got her wish—a sparring match with Mors himself. She fought hard, fierce and smiling, and when he disarmed her with an easy twist, he could swear he saw stars in her eyes.
Malora and Alyssa later took Allyria and Lyanna riding through the dunes, joined by Naerys, who laughed freely for the first time in months. One afternoon was spent at the Water Gardens, the sound of children's laughter echoing off marble and fountains.
They also toured Sunhaven, and even the Northerners—so used to snow and stone—were taken aback by the new city's harmony. The streets ran clean and ordered, cooled by the towering windcatchers that turned the desert heat into living breeze. Every face they passed seemed open, proud, and content.
By the week's end, when the time came to depart aboard the Dornish Sun for Oldtown and the great tourney, Lyanna lingered at the docks, her expression wistful. The she-wolf of Winterfell had found a piece of herself in the warmth of the South, and for a fleeting moment, even she seemed reluctant to let go.