The training grounds of Sunspear lay in the shadow of the high walls, the sand beneath their feet hot and soft. Mars stood alongside Oberyn and Ashara, watching as Ser Lewyn Martell, the Princess's younger brother, paced before them.
"You will learn to fight," he began, his voice firm. "Not because I wish it — but because Dorne endures through strength."
Ashara shot Mars a sidelong glance. "Could be fun."
"Or painful. Probably both." Sage's amused voice echoed in Mars's head.
The first weapon Mars was handed was a simple Dornish spear. He swung it, testing its weight. It felt… wrong. Too light. Too stiff. Ashara snickered.
"You look like you're about to trip into the river with that thing."
Mars grimaced and reached for a bastard sword. Better — but the balance felt awkward.
So went the morning: spears, swords, daggers, staves. He struggled with the weight, the reach, the rhythm. Trial and error.
Ashara, meanwhile, went straight for a bow. Her first shot missed. The second missed too. The third grazed the edge of the target.
"You'll get there," Mars grinned.
Later, as they rested in the shade of an almond tree, Ashara's gaze flicked toward a guard clutching his arm. The skin around the wound shimmered an unhealthy shade.
"He's been poisoned," she murmured.
Mars frowned. "How do you know?"
"I just do."
"Curious." Sage hummed in approval. "Her blood must carry an affinity for toxins. Rhoynar lineage, perhaps… we'll keep watch on that."
Mars sighed. Got it, old hag.
"I'm not old — I'm experienced."
Ashara raised a brow. "Who are you talking to?"
"No one… myself."
She only grinned. Then they clasped hands in silence — a wordless promise that this day would not be their last.