Mid 278 AC
It had been six months since King Aerys had unilaterally betrothed Princess Elia to Prince Rhaegar, while commanding Lord Lucerys Velaryon to aid Mors in scouring the Narrow Sea of pirates. For Mors, it marked his greatest failure to date—a bitter irony, born of his own success. Aerys seemed to crave another "Mors" in his line, and Rhaegar had engineered the matter as a supposed reward for Mors and Dorne. What was a betrothal to the heir of the realm if not a prize? Yet in truth, it was a chain. In doing this, Rhaegar tore away the mask of courtesy and revealed himself an adversary. The tragedy was that only Mors seemed to notice. Elia was blind, smitten with the prince's charm, while Rhaegar wore his mask flawlessly in her presence. Their marriage was set for the turn of the year, and Mors could feel it in his bones: unrest would follow shortly thereafter.
As expected, Doran had struck swiftly at Houses Yronwood and Wyl. The culling was brutal, yet decisive, extinguishing rebellion in a single masterful stroke. House Wyl was reduced to landed knights, their ancient pride broken. House Yronwood lost vast swaths of land and was reduced to little more than a minor lordship. The surviving adults were condemned to Ghaston Grey for life, while their child-heirs were taken to Sunspear for "reeducation." Most telling of all, the young Yronwood heiress was betrothed to Maron Sand under Dornish law of matrilineal succession, binding Oberyn's bastard son into the future of one of Dorne's oldest lines. Oberyn bristled at shackling his boy so young, but even he could see the advantage. Mors had hoped to be called for this work, yet the summons never came. He was left disappointed, forced instead to watch through the glass candle. The extended use had drained him, but the potential of such a tool was undeniable.
Then came the unexpected. At the funeral of Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Estermont, Robert Baratheon made his will plain: no envoy from Dorne or the Stepstones would be welcome. In his grief, Robert had fixed blame for his parents' deaths upon Mors, and now he hungered for blood. This Baratheon cousin, it seemed, would prove unreasonably stubborn.
Tensions in Sunspear soon boiled over. The Martell brothers came to blows—literal ones—when it was revealed that Doran had not opposed, but had approved, Elia's match with Rhaegar. Mors, though furious, had spared his brother's face, striking body blows rather than leaving marks the realm would see. Oberyn had no such restraint. Had Mors not held him back, Doran might have faced his vassals with blackened eyes. Though Mors could understand the logic behind Doran's decision, it still felt like betrayal of the highest order. And worst of all, every attempt to dissuade Elia from the match was met with sharp reprimand and bitter disappointment. She was determined to be Rhaegar's queen—and she would not be moved.
Yet politics and betrayal could not halt life's march forward. Even in the shadow of unrest, another moment arrived—the long planned union of Mors and Ashara.
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Sunfort Throne Room, The Stepstones
The sun shone brilliantly that day, draping the Sunfort in golden light. Once a pirate stronghold steeped in blood and marauding, it now stood transformed into a place of splendor. Gardens bloomed in riotous color, fountains whispered in the courtyards, and silk banners adorned the walls—those of House Dayne beside Mors's own standard: a red sun and golden spear upon a black field, echoing the colors of House Targaryen. Where once there had been fear and shadow, the fortress now stood as a hall of dreams—and of strength.
Nobles and dignitaries filled the throne room, their eyes reflecting the flickering light of golden candelabra. A strong fleet patrolled the Stepstones and beyond into the Narrow Sea, secured through Mors's command and the aid of the royal fleet under Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships. Today was not only a union of two houses—it was the cementing of a realm.
They had gathered to witness the marriage of Prince Mors Martell-Targaryen—so named by King Aerys himself—and Lady Ashara Dayne, who from this day forth would be hailed as Princess of the Stepstones. Already, the retainers of House Dayne—guards in their starry livery and maids in silver and violet—had taken their place within the Sunfort, a sign of the bond now forged between the two great houses.
Prince Lewyn Martell, eldest of House Martell, presided over the ceremony with quiet gravitas, as Princess Loreza had once done at Doran's wedding to Mellario years before. It was a sorrowful thought—that Loreza, once the unshakable heart of Sunspear, would never live to see either Mors or Elia wed. And Oberyn… well, should he ever marry, it would be a miracle worthy of a ballad all its own.
Prince Oberyn Martell, together with Commanders Bedwyck Uller, Idrin Qho, and Tahlor Sand, stood flanked by chosen men of the Spears of the Sun—lieutenants and comrades who had fought at Mors's side during his years in the elite force. Members of Mors's small council were present as well, along with his personal guard led by Ser Qerrin Toland, their presence lending further weight and solemnity to the gathering—a milestone marking how far they have come together.
Oberyn's smile, near-constant these past few months, lingered still; vengeance against Houses Yronwood and Wyl had been won, and his son, Maron Sand, was finally restored to him. At his side stood Madam Syrana Qho. The two had been seen together often of late, and since Syrana had opened a new branch of her courtesan house in Sunfort, Oberyn's frequent visits there had become a welcome sight for Mors. Part of his presence, no doubt, tied to the simmering frustration that Doran had not opposed Elia's betrothal to Rhaegar, one that Mors shared.
More curious still were Oberyn's exchanges with Malora Hightower. At last, someone had managed to leave the Red Viper speechless—and the sight of it was priceless.
The assembled lords and ladies looked on—many with awe, others with quiet joy. Among them stood Prince Doran Martell with Princess Mellario, who watched with a soft smile, a wetnurse at her side cradling infant Arianne, while Areo Hotah loomed protectively behind them as always, though even he seemed to smile at the event taking place.
Ser Ulrick Dayne, heir to Starfall, stood nearby, pride plain in his eyes as he looked upon his sister and good brother. Lord Trebor Jordayne, Lord Franklyn Fowler and Lord Harmen Uller were present as well, joined by Harmen's uncle, Ser Ormund Uller, younger brother to Lady Mellei. Prince Manfrey Martell also stood among them, newly Lord of the Stoneway, accompanied by his recent betrothed, Lady Jeyne Fowler, daughter of Lord Franklyn—a match arranged by Doran to further bind Dorne's great houses in the wake of the rebellion he had only just quelled. Beside Manfrey stood Lady Mellei Uller. Though her spirit and health had been restored, she still wore a veil, unable to cast aside the scars—both seen and unseen—that her ordeal had left behind.
From the Iron Throne, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had come to represent royal witness, standing beside Princess Elia Martell, radiant in silks of Martell colors. Flanking them were the Kingsguard—Ser Arthur Dayne, solemn pride in his sister's moment, with Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry. With Rhaegar were also Ser Jon Connington, Ser Richard Lonmouth, and Ser Myles Mooton—the last two once his squires, now knights raised by his own hand. Near Elia stood Alyssa Uller, ever the vigilant shadow at her side. Yet even in her watchfulness, a trace of a bittersweet smile lingered on her lips as she watched the proceedings.
Malora Hightower had "dressed up" for the occasion—though what that meant by her standards was anyone's guess. She flitted about the room, skirts swirling as she skipped happily in the company of Syenna, Mors's spymaster of internal affairs, and Naerya, his treasurer. To everyone's surprise, the three had become fast friends. Naerya, in particular, was fond of Malora, who delighted in pointing out hidden corners or "secret places" where she swore treasure was buried. More than once the two had gone off on impromptu treasure hunts, much to Syenna's exasperation.
The amusement of the hall peaked during one such encounter when a knight of House Gargalen made the mistake of mocking Malora. Before Syenna or Naerya could react, Malora spun on him, eyes alight with mischief.
"Oh, oh, I know you!" she chirped. "You're that knight who likes to wrestle naked with the sailors down by the port at night! What I don't understand is—if your back hurts so much, why do you always moan when they press against it? That seems very silly to me… hey, where are you going?"
The knight, red as a beetroot, beat a hasty retreat to the sound of stifled laughter, while Malora blinked innocently after him, head tilted as though she truly didn't understand. Syenna only sighed, and Naerya tried—and failed—to hide her grin.
But perhaps most surprising of to all to many was Ser Jeremy Norridge. The old knight, once sworn brother and confidant to Prince Daemon Targaryen, now stood at Mors's side as if a father, his hand steady on the young prince's shoulder. Opposite him stood Lord Beric Dayne, representing Ashara, both pillars bearing witness to the binding of their kin.
When vows were spoken and hands bound in silken cord, Lewyn's voice rang clear through the vaulted chamber:
"By the vows spoken and the binding of hands, I name them before you: Prince Mors Martell, and Princess Ashara Dayne—husband and wife, bound in honor, bound in blood. Welcome them!"
Thunderous applause filled the hall. The banners of sun and star fluttered in the warm sea-breeze, and the roar of celebration echoed from the Sunfort out into the bright waters of the Narrow Sea.
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The hall still echoed with cheers when Lewyn lowered his hands. At his gesture, Mors and Ashara turned, their fingers still bound in silken cord, and walked together toward the open archway at the far end of the throne room.
The doors were drawn wide. Beyond them stretched a grand balcony overlooking the courtyards and the sea. As the couple emerged into the sunlight, a roar erupted from below—soldiers, sailors, smallfolk, and merchants crowded the yards and terraces, their voices crashing like waves against the stone.
"Prince Mors!" they cried.
"Sun of Dorne!"
"Star of Starfall!"
"Dragon of Sunfort!"
"Prince and Princess of the Stepstones!"
Mors raised his hand. Ashara, radiant in violet and silver, smiled brilliantly as petals of red and gold were thrown skyward, fluttering down like falling suns. Together they stood for a long moment, letting the roar of the people wash over them, before returning to the hall.
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By the time they re-entered the Sunfort's great hall, tables had been set and a feast prepared. Platters of roasted goat, spiced fish, olives, and figs crowded the boards, while Arbor Red, Arbor Gold, Myrish firewine, and others flowed without restraint. Musicians struck up lively tunes, pipes and lutes filling the air with bright notes of celebration.
Mors rose from his seat, lifting his cup. The hall quieted.
"My lords, my ladies, my friends. You honor Ashara and me with your presence today. This hall was once a place of sorrow and death. Tonight, because of you, it shines with light and laughter. And perhaps soon, it will ring with new life." He glanced at Ashara with a flirtatious smirk, one she met without backing down.
He continued, "To my family, who have stood by me, and to those who crossed sea and stone to be here—you have my thanks. May this union strengthen not only two houses, but all who call Dorne and the Stepstones friends.
Raise your cups, and drink with us—not only to our bond, but to the bonds between us all."
He turned to Ashara, pressing a kiss to her hand, before raising his cup high.
Applause broke out across the hall—joined by cheers and a loud whoop from Malora that drew laughter from nearby tables.
Prince Doran raised his cup next. "To my brother, the Sun, and to Ashara, now his Star. May their union burn bright—for Dorne, for the Stepstones, and for all who call them home. To the Sun and the Star!"
"To the Sun and the Star!" voices echoed back, cups clashing together.
Oberyn was quick to follow. "And may the bed hold sturdier than the table!" he called, earning a chorus of laughter and groans alike. Ashara rolled her eyes, though her lips curved despite herself, while Mors only smirked in quiet amusement.
At another table, Malora Hightower was already on her feet, skipping in a slow circle with a goblet in hand. "Sun and star, kiss and play—chase the darkness far away!" she sang before collapsing into Syenna's lap, giggling uncontrollably, clearly already drunk. Syenna buried her face in her palm while Naerya looked torn between outrage and laughter.
And the toasts rolled on—some solemn, some bawdy, some clumsy—but all entertaining in their own way.
Prince Rhaegar sat quietly beside Elia, his smile as charming as ever. He entertained lords with practiced ease, murmuring with one and then another, but his eyes strayed too often toward the new couple. When Ashara laughed, his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. At his elbow hovered Jon Connington, devoted as a hound, slipping away now and again only to return with another lord to fold into Rhaegar's orbit with the help of Myles Mooten and Richard Lonmouth. Every so often, though, Jon cast Elia a strange look.
Mors could be mistaken—his perception had misled him before—but something about Jon Connington struck him as strange. 'Is he… jealous of Elia? Is that what those looks mean?' A slow spark of interest flickered. 'If so… that could be useful.'
He masked the thought behind a calm expression as he noticed Arthur Dayne approaching.
Arthur came forward quietly, stopping before his sister and Mors.
"You look well, Ashara," Arthur said, his tone softer than usual. "And you, my prince—may this bond be a strong one."
Ashara's smile lit her face. "Thank you, brother!"
Mors chuckled. "None of that 'my prince' business, Arthur. We've been friends too long for that—and now we're good brothers in truth."
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. "That we are. But some formalities still have their place." His expression sobered as his eyes turned solemn. "She is my blood, my sister. Guard her well."
Mors met his gaze without hesitation. "On my life."
Ashara rolled her eyes at the byplay, though she knew well enough why Arthur worried. Under her breath, she murmured, "This protective brother…"
Arthur gave a small nod. He kissed Ashara's brow, then clasped Mors by the arm. For a moment he lingered, watching the room. When the attention shifted toward Oberyn's laughter, Arthur leaned in, pressing a folded scrap of parchment into Mors's hand.
"Read later," he whispered.
And with that, he stepped back into the crowd, his white cloak trailing after him.
Mors was caught off guard but gave no sign, closing his hand around the note and carrying on as though nothing had happened.
At one part in the evening, when the musicians struck a slower song, the Spears of the Sun rose to perform a spear-dance in Mors's honor. Their weapons flashed in intricate arcs of silver and steel, movements sharp as flame. Oberyn joined midway, his body a blur of speed and precision, drawing cheers and shouts from the crowd. From their seats, Syrana and Idrin Qho clapped wildly, Idrin leaning over to mutter something about fireworks. He dismissed it with a frown; surely he'd misheard, since he had made it clear such things were forbidden.
The feast stretched long into the evening, wine flowing as freely as mirth. Yet beneath the applause, beneath the music and merriment, Mors could not shake the sense of storm clouds gathering. Rhaegar's gaze. Robert's simmering hatred. Elia's blind devotion. Ominous currents waiting beyond the light.
But for this night, he let them fade. He rose, raised his cup high in thanks for the performance of the Spears of the Sun. The hall roared once more.
Then, from the sea, a thunderous crack split the night. Fire blossomed above the waves in a cascade of color. Gasps swept the hall, and for an instant panic loomed—until Idrin leapt to his feet with arms outstretched. "Congratulations, my prince!" he crowed.
Laughter rippled through the chamber as guests, realizing it was "part of the event," clapped and cheered at the display. Mors only rubbed his brow while Ashara offered him a cramped smile—one that promised Idrin would soon regret his brilliance.
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Later That Night
Mors stood on the patio outside his chamber, the moon bright above, its light silvering the stones. In one hand he held the folded scrap Arthur had slipped him, the other resting by the flame of a guttering candle.
'Silver knives have been loosed for you. Guard the moon behind the sun.'
Short. Simple. But the meaning was clear enough. They were coming for him again — and Ashara might be in danger too. And "they" could only mean Rhaegar.
"Mors?"
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned — and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Ashara stepped out, almost bare, her body wrapped in little more than a sheer Lyseni slip, her every step a deliberate prowl. She looked like a lioness stalking prey, violet eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
'By the gods…'
She smirked when she saw his reaction. "How long will you brood out here? You've a beautiful new wife waiting for you on her wedding night. Or perhaps you'd rather I keep myself entertained alone?" She arched a brow, teasing. "Or are you waiting for Malora to sneak into our bed again?"
Mors swallowed, then let a wolfish grin spread across his face. He touched the note to the flame until it curled into ash, then turned to her.
"I hope you rested well today," he said, voice low and predatory. "Because it will be a long night."
Ashara laughed softly as he swept her up into his arms, carrying her inside. Her giggles trailed behind them as the door closed, candlelight spilling across the chamber.