Auraborne: The Sun of Dorne

POV I — Loreza Martell

The words dropped like a blade into her chest.

"He might not make it."

Princess Loreza Martell did not flinch. Not in front of the court. Not in front of the guards. Not when her first husband died from injuries sustained while fighting pirates in the stepstones, nor when she heard that her second husband had perished in the Tragedy at Summerhall, after starting to genuinely care for him more than a friend, had she allowed herself to break. But now—as her brother's voice was shaking, her knees wanted to follow.

She stood still, high above the Water Gardens in the eastern solar, robes heavy with the weight of titles she hadn't asked for.

"Tell me everything, Maron."

Prince Maron Martell bowed his head slightly. His voice, usually a calm drawl, was tense. "Thrown from his mount. Neck seemed to have cracked —if not snapped. The maesters aren't sure if it's swelling in the spine, or worse. He's unconscious. Hasn't stirred since."

Loreza exhaled. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers dug into the edge of the marble table.

"Where?"

"The Water Gardens. He was racing Oberyn and Manfrey—"

"Of course he was," she cut sharply. Her voice cracked.

"Of course Oberyn goaded him into it. And no one stopped them. Not one of the guards thought to say: 'Perhaps not, my princes —not across shifting dunes with no saddles.'?"

Maron stepped forward. "Sister—Loreza. This isn't the time for blame."

"No?" Her voice rose. "Then when? After I've buried another husband? Another child?" Her composure splintered.

"First Father. Then Lewyn. Then that tragedy that took sweet Daeron—" She caught her breath as if it were a fragile thing about to break in her throat. "If Mors dies… if he dies…"

Her hands trembled.

"I will not survive it."

Maron placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"He's still breathing. That is more than we feared."

She looked at him with eyes red-rimmed, yet defiant.

"He is my youngest. He grew up without a father. He carries all that we lost. His blood is fire and river—dragon and Rhoynar. If the gods want to take him now, they will have to drag me with him."

Maron gently turned her from the window.

"Then don't let them. Don't feed your fear. Let the maesters do what they can. Let the gods be quiet. You—breathe."

She shook her head, wordless.

"You need to be by his side," Maron added. "I'll remain here and ensure everything is taken care of."

Loreza's lips pressed together, trembling with something between grief and fury.

"But first, you must rest," he urged.

"You are no use to him shattered. And Loreza… remember who he is. He is not just your child. He is a Martell. He has Targaryen flame in his blood. Rhoynish resilience in his bones. He'll rise. I believe that."

For the first time, she let herself lean into him, just a little.

"Then believe for both of us. Until I can again."

POV II — Oberyn Martell

The sparring yard was blistered with heat and fury.

Oberyn struck, missed. Manfrey countered. Oberyn stumbled.

Again.

The clash of their wooden spears echoed hollow and false. Nothing landed right. No balance, no rhythm. No control.

"You're dropping your back foot again," Manfrey snapped.

"Don't tell me what I'm doing wrong," Oberyn hissed, circling.

"Then stop doing it!"

They crashed together again—one, two, three strikes—then the master-at-arms barked, "Enough!"

The spears clattered to the ground.

"You want to kill each other?" the old knight growled, stepping between them.

"Because you're well on your way. This isn't a game. This is steel-in-your-belly training. And you—" he jabbed a finger at Oberyn, "—are swinging like a drunk sellsword."

Oberyn breathed hard through clenched teeth. Sweat stung his eyes. His hands were blistered, skin torn open from training without gloves. But he didn't care.

"Get out of the sun," the knight snapped.

"Drink. Rest. Get your heads on straight before you end up in the healer's tent next to your little brother."

That landed like a punch. Oberyn's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he turned away.

Manfrey followed, silent.

They sat in the shade beside the sparring circle. A servant passed a flask of water, which Oberyn barely touched.

"He's not dead," Manfrey said quietly. "He's still breathing."

"He wouldn't be there if it weren't for me," Oberyn bit back.

"You didn't throw him off the horse."

"I dared him to. I laughed as we raced. I should've been the one who fell. I should've—"

"You were riding beside him, not dragging him behind," Manfrey said.

"He made his own choice."

Oberyn shook his head, jaw clenched.

"He's ten. I was supposed to be watching him. Not treating him like another rider. Like another soldier."

Manfrey didn't answer. Just passed him the flask again.

Oberyn took it this time. Drank deeply. Then stared out at the red stone walls, eyes dark with guilt.

"If he dies," he said, voice low, "I will never forgive myself."

POV III — Doran Martell

The chamber was still, save for the rustle of Elia's silks as she shifted, curled beside the bed. Her head rested on her arm, face tear-streaked, but quiet now.

Doran stood behind her, near the foot of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Mors's chest.

Every breath felt like a battle won. Every shallow exhale a tremor.

Maesters whispered behind him. Poultices were changed. A cooling cloth pressed to the boy's brow.

Doran did not speak.

He had always been the careful one. The steady hand. The observer. The heir who planned while others played.

But now?

He had not planned for this.

His brother—his youngest brother—lay still and pale and silent. And Doran, Crown Prince of Dorne, could do nothing.

Elia's fingers twitched, brushing Mors's hand.

"He's strong," Doran said softly.

She didn't look up, just nodded.

"He has more fight in him than any boy his age. You'll see. He'll come back."

"I don't want him to fight," she whispered. "I just want him to live."

Doran closed his eyes for a long moment.

'So do I. But I should have guided him better. I should have said no to the race. Should have taught him caution. Should have—'

He opened them again and let the guilt fade back into silence. There would be time to examine his failings later.

For now, all that mattered was the boy in the bed.

"Rest, Elia," he said. "I'll watch him."

She didn't argue. Just lay her head beside Mors again.

And Doran stood sentinel in the flickering candlelight, willing the boy to breathe again.