The Chronicles of the New Age of Kings
Excerpt from Chapter XVIII – The Accord of Highgarden
"When the Sun of Dorne rode through the gardens of the Reach, even roses bent toward his light.
His warmth stirred the valley, his presence turned the fields to gold, and for a fleeting season, beauty and power walked side by side.
Yet every bloom that opens beneath the sun must also learn its shadow, for even the brightest light cannot banish the dusk forever."
by Archmaester Thalen of Oldtown, written circa 316 AC
Reflecting on the Highgarden Council of Kings of 284 AC, when peace bloomed once more beneath the light of the Sun of Dorne.
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Mid–Late 284 AC — Highgarden, Kingdom of the Reach
After two weeks of leisurely travel with several pleasant stops along the way, the Martell–Stark–Hightower host finally reached the valley of the Mander, where Highgarden was located. The valley glowed gold beneath the afternoon sun. As the host descended along the winding road, the air grew thick with the scene of roses. Bees hummed over wild blooms, and far ahead, the towers of Highgarden shimmered in pale green and white marble, their walls draped in flowering vines that glowed like living banners.
But that wasn't all they could see. Even from a distance, the sight was striking—hundreds of tents surrounded the castle with their colorful and diverse standards flyting in the wind, spreading across the fields like a living tapestry of color. Each encampment had been carefully arranged so that lords and banners from the different kingdoms were grouped together, reducing the chance of old tempers flaring. Highgarden's guards patrolled steadily through the common areas, keeping a quiet order amid the growing crowd.
The fields outside the city were alive with sound and motion. Merchants had set up countless stalls, selling food, wine, and trinkets from every corner of Westeros. Knights and squires sparred in open spaces, the clang of steel ringing in the warm air. Children played at being knights, chasing one another with wooden swords and painted shields. It was a scene of vivid life—one that seemed to celebrate the peace that had returned after years of war.
Above it all, the sky was clear and bright, the afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. Highgarden's famed flowers stretched in every direction, their colors glowing under the light. The tourney grounds had been chosen with care to preserve the gardens and greenery around the castle, so that the city's beauty framed the celebration rather than being trampled by it. With the scent of roses in the air and banners rippling in every hue imaginable, it was certain—this would be the most radiant and colorful tourney Westeros had seen in a generation.
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As the Martell carriage rolled past a group of children playing by the roadside, the passengers couldn't help but overhear a scene that brought laughter to the ladies inside.
"You think you can defeat me, Evil Dragon? For I am King Mors, the Dragon of the South, the Sun of Dorne, Champion of the Seven—and today I shall channel the Warrior to end your tyranny!" declared a slightly chubby boy, standing tall with a stick raised like a sword.
"Hah! Dream on! The Evil Dragon has ruled these lands forever. You'll never free my slaves! Today, I'll show you my power!" another boy shouted, baring his teeth in mock rage.
The two charged and began clashing with wooden sticks while the rest of their friends joined in, laughing and striking wildly at one another.
Ashara chuckled, her violet eyes gleaming. "Oh, look at that—the great King Mors has admirers everywhere! As expected of you sunny, the Dragon of the South, Sun of Dorne, Champion of the Seven." Her smile was almost blinding.
Daeron's eyes lit up. "Wow! Father's so famous! He's the Dragon of the South!"
Malora, laughing behind her hand, added dramatically, "Hmm, the storytelling was passable, but the actors? Terrible! No commitment to the source material whatsoever. And why is King Mors being played by the chubby one? I swear, there's no respect for accuracy in these productions!"
Alyssa, trying and failing to suppress her laughter, joined in. "Quite right. Their swordplay was dreadful too—no form, no discipline."
Mors shook his head, smiling despite himself. Ignoring their banter, he leaned toward his son. "I am a little famous, Daeron," he said with mock gravity. "But when you're older, I'll tell you the real story. For now, focus on your studies."
Then, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial whisper, he added, "And when you grow up and learn enough and get stronger… maybe they'll make stories about you, too."
He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately.
Daeron's eyes widened in surprise, his face glowing. "I can? Then I'll work hard, Father!"
Mors laughed softly, joined by the others in the carriage, as the road ahead stretched on beneath the golden Reach sun.
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As the Martell–Stark host approached the gates of Highgarden, a welcoming line awaited them.
At its center stood King Mace Tyrell, radiant in gold-threaded armor that strained slightly at the belly. A velvet cloak embroidered with a hundred roses trailed behind him, and his chest swelled as if he himself had planted the sun in the sky.
At his side stood Queen Alerie Hightower, Malora's younger sister—poised and luminous in her composure. Their four children stood beside them in careful order, the two smallest cradled by nurses.
Just behind them, Lady Olenna Redwyne, the Queen Mother, watched with an expression sharp enough to prune the hedges herself.
When the Martell–Stark–Hightower host dismounted, Lord Leyton Hightower stepped forward, bowing before the Tyrell king.
"Your Grace," Leyton said with stately calm, "I have fulfilled my duty. I present to you King Mors Martell and King Brandon Stark, with their families."
Mace waved a hand dismissively, laughing. "Ah, goodfather, none of that! It was merely a favor I asked of you—thank you, thank you!"
He turned then to Mors, beaming. "My goodbrother, King Mors! How glad I am to see you again after so long. We are delighted to host you in Highgarden!"
Before Mors could reply, Mace pivoted to Brandon. "And King Brandon! Thank you for gracing us with your presence. I'm sure even you must be glad to be away from that dreadfully cold wasteland you call the North. We'll see to it you're properly warmed here in Highgarden!"
A silence followed. Brandon's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and several of his men exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to frown or laugh.
Mors resisted a deep sigh. 'Seven save us…' he thought. He had an almost physical urge to drag his palm down his face—but he held himself back.
Others, however, were not so disciplined.
"Pft—hahaha—ow—hmpf—sorry," Malora suddenly burst out laughing. Alyssa immediately pinched her waist, forcing her back into composure. "I just remembered," Malora blurted quickly, "that chickens can't fly—and found it terribly funny."
"Pft—hahaha—hmpf—pardon me…" Princess Lyanna Stark followed, stifling her own laugh. "I also realized what Lady Malora said was funny and simply couldn't contain myself."
Olenna's voice cut through before Mace could recover.
"Mace! Stop making a fool of yourself. You've just insulted the North."
Her tone left no room for argument. Turning smoothly toward Mors and Brandon, she added with flawless diplomacy, "Your Majesties, welcome to Highgarden. We trust your stay will be pleasant—and that your Council of Kings brings forth proper understanding between our realms."
Mace blinked, baffled. "Making a fool of myself? What did I say?" he muttered under his breath. "I was only trying to help the Northerners warm up after escaping that dreadfully cold place…" He shook his head, still lost. "I can never understand what Mother's talking about."
Queen Alerie, with a composed smile that betrayed years of practice, gently cooed, "It's all right, my king. I'm sure everyone knows what you meant."
Seeing the awkwardness stretch, Leyton stepped forward smoothly. "Your Grace," he said, "perhaps you might continue the introductions. Our royal guests have yet to meet your beautiful children."
Mace brightened at once, puffing up like a peacock. "Ah, yes, of course! These here are my children—each as beautiful as their mother, and, well, perhaps a little of me too."
He gestured proudly. "From eldest to youngest: Willas, eight; Garlan, seven; and the little ones, Loras and Margaery—two and one. And look at her! Is she not the most beautiful babe in the realm? Mark my words—she'll be a queen one day, just like her mother."
Mors managed a diplomatic smile. "Ah… quite beautiful indeed. Our niece is a sight to behold. You and Queen Alerie have been blessed with fine children, King Mace."
Brandon, having regained his composure with Catelyn's subtle touch at his sleeve, nodded in agreement. "Aye, that's right, King Mace, Queen Alerie—you have beautiful children."
Mors continued the introductions with calm grace. "Then allow me to present my family. Through my queen, Ashara Dayne—our eldest, the young Sun Dragon, Daeron, four, and our daughter Syrena, one. From Lady Alyssa Uller, Loreza, two. And from Lady Malora Hightower, little Luna, one."
Alerie's eyes lit warmly as she spotted Luna in her sister's arms. "I'm so happy for you, sister," she said softly, embracing Malora and leaning close to admire the babe.
Brandon followed with a smile of pride. "And this," he said, motioning to the child by his side, "is my little wolf cub—Rickard Stark, two."
Polite laughter and words of blessing followed as introductions continued among the families and lords.
At last, Mace clapped his hands together. "Now then! Let us retreat from the heat. I've arranged a small feast to welcome our noble guests."
Brandon inclined his head politely but refused. "You have our thanks, King Mace, but I must first see to my men and meet with the Northern contingent."
Mace looked mildly disappointed but recovered quickly, turning his attention to Mors and the Hightowers. "Then the honor falls to you, King Mors—and to you, good Lord Leyton. Come, let us dine."
They followed him into the marble halls, sunlight glinting on the golden vines carved into the doorframes. The air inside was cool and fragrant with lilies.
Throughout the meal, Mors caught Lady Olenna watching him from across the table—her eyes sharp, assessing, but not hostile. She spoke little, merely listened, her fingers tapping lightly on her cup as if counting the beats of every word spoken around her.
He wasn't sure whether she found him interesting or dangerous. Either way, he knew one truth about the Queen of Thorns:
Attention from her was never a good thing.
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Almost three hours later, the small feast drew to a close. The guests had eaten their fill of honey-glazed pheasant, sugared fruits, and Arbor wine, and polite exhaustion now hung over the table.
Mors set down his cup and rose with practiced grace. "King Mace, I thank you for your hospitality. I'll go and meet my brother and the Dornish host who should have already arrived by way of the Prince's Pass. We can continue our talks later—they have been… eh, enlightening." He added the last word with a forced smile.
Mace laughed delightedly, his cheeks already flushed from drink. "Hahaha! Good, good! I'm glad you found them enlightening! Yes, yes—you must come back later. I have a cask of vintage wine I'm sure you'll enjoy!"
Then he leaned in conspiratorially—or tried to. His whisper carried across the entire table.
"And when you return, I can show you some of the other treasures we have here. It's not only the Dornish who know how to have fun, eh? Eh? Eh?" He ended with a laugh and a nudge, the innuendo as subtle as a warhorn.
Lady Olenna quite literally pressed a hand to her face.
Mors's eye twitched uncontrollably. "…Right. Yes. Um—thanks. We'll… be going now."
He turned to Queen Alerie, offering a sympathetic half-smile. "We will be seeing you soon, Queen Alerie. I'm sure Malora would love to spend some time with you."
Malora smirked. "Yes, little sister, don't worry — I'll come rescue you from—"
Alyssa quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. "Thank you for your hospitality," she said through a strained, polite smile.
Ashara stepped forward with effortless poise, her laugh light and melodic. "It has been an absolute delight to visit the Reach. I'll make sure my royal husband finds the time to grace your presence again soon. Thank you once more for the meal."
Lord Leyton stood and inclined his head. "King Mors, Queen Ashara, my family—we've enjoyed our time together. I'll remain here a while with my liege. Do not hesitate to seek me out should you need anything."
Mors smiled warmly. "Of course, thank you, goodfather."
"Bye, Daddy!" Malora waved cheerfully, bouncing Luna in her arms as they turned to leave.
They made it only a few paces before a sharp exchange drifted faintly from behind them.
"Ow! Mother, why did you hit me?" Mace's voice whined.
"Because you're an oaf, you oaf! How could you—" Olenna's voice faded as they moved further down the corridor.
Ashara pressed her lips together, failing to hide her amusement. "Well," she murmured, "that was… something."
As if waiting for permission, the entire group burst into laughter—relieved, shared, and thoroughly deserved.
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Some time later, they arrived at the Dornish section of the tourney grounds.
The air was alive with familiar energy—tents still being raised, laughter echoing through the camp, the rhythmic clatter of sparring spears, and bursts of music from somewhere deep within. Dornish men and women moved about with effortless purpose: some worked, some drank, some danced.
Yet whenever they caught sight of King Mors, activity paused. Soldiers, servants, even the drunker knights—all stopped whatever they were doing to bow or salute before carrying on.
Three men in the midst of a drunken fight froze mid-punch, straightened, and dipped their heads as Mors passed—then immediately resumed their scuffle the moment he was beyond earshot, drawing soft smiles from Ashara and the others.
Malora accompanied Alyssa to the Uller tents, with young Daeron walking happily at their side. Behind them, the servants trailed after Mors and Ashara toward the main pavilion, cradling the sleeping infants to be settled in for the night.
At the heart of the encampment stood a large, beautifully decorated pavilion—their main tent, embroidered with the sun-and-spear of House Martell. In front of it, two figures trained in the open space: Prince Oberyn Martell, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, and a young boy mirroring his movements with a smaller spear in hand.
When Oberyn noticed the approaching host, he lowered his weapon and broke into a grin.
"Brother!" he called. "It's about time! I was beginning to think you'd stopped to seduce every flower in the Reach. Since you were taking your sweet time, I decided to train Maron instead. The boy's got my gift for the spear—Seven help us, let's hope he also inherits my taste for the finer things in life."
The eight-year-old Maron Sand turned crimson at the remark but quickly straightened and offered a proper bow.
"Hello, royal uncle. I hope you had a pleasant trip."
Ashara immediately stepped forward, unable to resist. She cupped his cheeks fondly. "Oh, look at him—so proper! You're absolutely adorable."
Mors chuckled, shaking his head. "Hahaha, yes, he is. And to answer your question, little man—yes, the trip was pleasant. How was yours, nephew?"
Maron, still flustered by Ashara's attention, managed a shy smile. "It was good, Uncle. A bit boring, but I got to spar with Father and Uncle Manfrey on the road."
Mors raised a brow, intrigued. "Manfrey came with you?" He turned to Oberyn.
Oberyn smirked. "That's right. After sailing to the Stoneway, I convinced him to join me. We left Jeyne and the children with her father, Lord Franklyn, at the Skyreach in the Prince's Pass, and arrived here yesterday."
Mors smiled in approval. "Good. Then after Ashara and I get settled inside, I'll join you for Maron's training—the boy has real potential." He glanced around. "Is Manfrey here?"
Oberyn grinned. "That's great. Maron enjoys learning from his uncle. As for Manfrey—he went off to explore the common grounds with Bedwyck."
Then his expression shifted, eyes sparkling with mischief. "By the way… part of the reason he came was because he had to flee for a while."
Mors and Ashara exchanged a puzzled look.
"Flee?" Mors asked. "Flee from what? Was he in danger?"
Oberyn's grin widened. "Oh yes. Mortal danger. Had he stayed, he might've been thrown off Skyreach by his wife herself—hahaha!"
Mors groaned, realizing it wasn't danger at all but gossip. "Seven save me, Oberyn. Stop sounding like one of those gossipy old ladies and just tell me what happened."
Ashara chuckled softly, amused by the byplay.
Oberyn drew it out on purpose. "Well… it seems our dear cousin Manfrey wasn't satisfied with just one of the twins…" He let the words hang dramatically.
Mors's eyes went wide. "No. It can't be. Don't tell me—did our dear cousin really—?"
Ashara shook her head, laughing at the two grown men gossiping like tavern girls.
Oberyn leaned in theatrically. "That's not all…" His voice dropped to a mock whisper. "Jeyne's twin sister, Jennelyn… is pregnant! Hahaha!"
Mors and Ashara both covered their mouths in disbelief before Mors burst out laughing. "No! By the gods. I see, I see. I'll have to have a word or two with that playboy."
Oberyn and Maron exchanged matching grins, clearly plotting something. They didn't need to say it—Manfrey's life would not be peaceful for the next few days.
Then came the innocent voice of Maron.
"Father, what did Uncle Manfrey do with Aunt Jeyne's twin sister?"
Oberyn smirked, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "Well, little Maron, your uncle Manfrey decided he didn't have enough meat to eat, so he—"
"Oberyn."
The single word from Mors carried quiet command.
Oberyn rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine." He ruffled Maron's hair instead. "Don't worry about it, little spear. You'll understand when you're older."
"Father! Not the hair again!" Maron protested, batting his hand away.
Oberyn laughed. "Ah, so there's still fight in you. Good. Let's continue training. Do well, and your uncle Mors will join us soon."
"Yes, Father! I'll do my best!"
"That's my little spear! Come!" Oberyn barked joyfully, lowering into a stance as the boy mirrored him.
Mors and Ashara exchanged weary but fond looks—the kind only siblings and spouses could share after years of Oberyn's chaos.
Then, still smiling, they turned toward the pavilion to finally get settled inside.
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Three Days Later
The Martell host had spent the last three days exploring Highgarden in full splendor—walking its sunlit terraces, visiting the bustling market stalls, and meeting the many lords who had gathered for the grand tourney.
And, of course, teasing the life out of Manfrey.
Though the matter was treated with humor among family, it was still a delicate scandal involving two of the major houses of the realm. Mors had handled it with measured grace—sending a raven to Skyreach with a formal apology to Lord Franklyn Fowler and Jennelyn Fowler on behalf of both Manfrey and House Martell, promising to address the matter properly upon his return to Dorne.
Now, under the bright Reach sun, King Mors Martell walked alongside King Denys Arryn through the common grounds of the tourney. Behind them, Queen Ashara Dayne strolled arm in arm with Queen Alyssa Waynwood, their quiet conversation occasionally breaking into laughter.
Trailing a few paces further back were Allyria Dayne, Lynesse Hightower, Lyanna Stark, Benjen Stark, and Benjen's friend and personal guard trainee, Walder—a lad of fourteen who already stood six and a half feet tall (196 cm) and weighed near two hundred and eighty pounds. His sheer size made him look older than Mors himself, and his easy grin drew attention wherever he went.
Around them, their guards maintained a careful formation—Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, and a mix of Dornish, Vale, and Northern knights keeping a vigilant eye on the crowd.
They had already met the day before with King Brandon Stark, discussing the darker threats stirring beyond the Wall—omens that pointed toward a war unlike any before. At first, King Denys Arryn had doubted the tales of shadows and cold death in the far North, but Mors's conviction—and the quiet authority with which he spoke of what was coming—had finally persuaded him. By the end of their meeting, the King of the Vale had agreed: if the War of the Dawn was truly approaching, then the Vale would stand beside the North and Dorne when the time came, thus cementing a new alliance born of shared purpose.
Now, as they walked past a line of colorful tents, the air hummed with life. The wind carried the clash of steel and bursts of laughter from the lists beyond where people were preparing for the tourney.
Denys spoke first, his tone thoughtful. "There's no harm in preparation," he said, echoing their talk from the day before. "And if Brandon truly intends to restore the Wall's strength, we must take a more active role."
Mors nodded easily. "That's right. The Night's Watch is our first line of defense. They need the right sort of men there—not just the ones the realm throws away."
Denys agreed. "If the Watch is to stand again, it will need more than criminals and outcasts. It must be seen as a calling—chivalry's purest test."
"That was exactly our thought," Mors said approvingly. "It has to become a sacred duty again, not a punishment. If we make the North proud of it, perhaps the South will follow."
They walked in silence for a while, watching children chase one another through the grass as merchants called out their wares nearby.
Finally, Denys said, "I'll push to restore its honor as much as I can within the Vale. We hold chivalry and honor as our highest calling—many second and third sons may be willing to take the black if they see it as a path of virtue and honor, instead of exile and disgrace."
Mors considered that, sunlight glinting in his violet eyes. "True… it might be harder in Dorne, but I'll push for the same. We all need the Watch to stand."
They paused as a group of mummers began performing nearby, drawing cheers from the crowd. Mors glanced back and couldn't help but smile at the sight of Allyria, Lyanna, and Lynesse laughing together, their mirth momentarily softening the day's solemn thoughts.
Denys leaned closer, his voice low and resolute. "When you go to the Wall in a year's time, I'll join you. Perhaps by then I'll have gathered a batch of men from the Vale to accompany us. I want my people to see that I'm serious about this."
Mors's eyes widened, a genuine spark of excitement lighting his face. "Excellent. Then in a year we—"
"Lyanna, my queen!"
The familiar booming voice cracked through the hum of the market like thunder over calm water. Conversation died; movement halted.
Mors's face froze mid-speech. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled through his nose.
'Seven save us… the storm has arrived.'