Two Weeks Later
Mors,now Prince of the Stepstones, arrived at Sunspear in the late afternoon. He had spent two days in King's Landing, negotiating for supplies to fuel his projects and striking bargains for more ships to swell his ever-growing fleet. The King's words still echoed in his mind: "Ask for what you need." Cousin or not, Mors had not been shy. Jeremy had remained behind in the capital, overseeing contracts and shipments to ensure that everything they required would be secured and delivered without delay.
Waiting for him on the pier was nearly the whole family and council: Princess Loreza, cane in hand; Doran, with a radiant Mellario at his side, her belly heavy with child; Elia, Lewyn, and Manfrey; Ashara, Alyssa, and Areo standing close; Sunspear's small council; and—most surprisingly—Oberyn, freshly returned from Oldtown after word of Mors's new title had spread like wildfire.
Loreza stepped forward first. "You are no longer merely my son," she said warmly, "but a Prince in your own right. Equal in station, and soon to rule your own seat. It is only right that Sunspear welcomes you as such."
Mors inclined his head, touched. "Thank you, Mother. Though I'll never be your equal—merely your son, trying to make you proud."
Oberyn clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Seven hells, brother, you've managed to make me look lazy. Rescuing kings, building fleets, founding outposts… what's next, hmmm? Crowning yourself King of Westeros?"
Laughter rippled through the group, but Mors caught the shadow in Loreza's smile. Her clothes hung looser than they should; she was wasting away, her cane more a necessity with each passing month. He had poured his aura into her time and again, easing her pain, slowing the decline—but deep down he knew the truth. The Slow Rot. Diabetes, in the terms of his old world. He had begged her to cut back on sweets, and she had—reluctantly—but it was no cure. And he was no doctor. Insulin… he remembered the word, but what was it, truly? How was it made? What treatments had once existed? In this age, there were none.
She was going to die.
The knowledge gnawed at him, a cruel reminder of what it meant to live in a world trapped in its own medieval shadows.
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That night, Sunspear held a feast in his honor. Wine flowed, music rang through the halls, and laughter carried late into the night. Mors danced with Ashara and Elia, sparred words with Alyssa, toasted with Doran, Oberyn, and Manfrey, shared soft words with Mellario, and knelt to kiss Loreza's brow. It was the closest thing to peace he had known in years.
Later, when the feasting gave way to music on the balconies, he found himself with Ashara beneath the stars. The warm breeze tugged at her dark hair, and her violet eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Without warning, she struck him hard on the arm.
"Ow—what was that for?" he asked, rubbing the spot, rubbing the spot in mock injury.
Her eyes were wet, her voice trembling with anger and fear. "Are you suicidal? Why would you throw yourself into something so dangerous? Duskendale could have killed you, Mors."
He blinked, then gave her a small, wry smile. "Ashara… you know my strength. If I hadn't been sure, I wouldn't have gone. I don't take risks I can't win."
She shook her head, voice breaking. "That doesn't matter. You rescued the King in front of half the realm, and the other half heard the story by morning. You're standing out more and more. I… I'm afraid someone will try to kill you for it." Her words tumbled into a sob as she wrapped her arms around him fiercely.
Mors stilled, then slowly returned the embrace, resting his chin against her hair.
'She's thinking about the assassins. Afraid more will come… afraid she'll lose me.'
The realization cut through him, sharper than steel. 'Through my Aura I can feel it—her love, fierce and consuming—overwhelming. I've never felt anything like it. But her fear runs just as deep, almost desperate.'
He drew back just enough to meet her eyes. Tears glimmered there, raw and unguarded. He kissed her—slow, steady, with certainty—enough to quiet the trembling in her body.
When they parted, he smiled softly. "I love you, Ashara. Having you beside me… it's the greatest gift this life has given me."
Her answering smile was luminous, her eyes fixed wholly on him—until a flicker of mischief broke through the tears.
"Who said I was yours? Prince or not, you'll have to work harder, Sunny, if you want me."
But the spark in her gaze betrayed her. She already was.
He laughed, bowing slightly. "Then let me earn another chance, my lady. May I have this dance?"
Ashara dipped into a mock curtsy, the violet of her gown shimmering in the torchlight. "If the Prince of the Stepstones insists… I suppose I have no choice."
And so they danced—beneath the stars, beneath Sunspear's banners—while laughter and music filled the halls behind them. A night of celebration, of joy, of family. A fleeting interlude before the storm that waited beyond the horizon.
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Early Morning — Sunspear Training Grounds
The air was still cool, the pale gold of dawn spilling across the sands. From the balcony above, the sea could be heard rolling against the cliffs, but in the yard below it was only steel and laughter.
Five figures stood at the center of the training circle, all armored in padded leather and steel helms. Four faced one.
Mors.
Before him stood Lewyn Martell, spear in hand, flanked by Oberyn with his twin blades, Manfrey with sword and shield, and Areo Hotah—towering, grim, his great axe resting easily in his grip.
On the sideline, Doran stood with arms crossed, watching with the calm of a judge. Beside him, Ashara and Alyssa were laced in lighter training gear, stopping their morning's drills to watch the spar.
Mors tilted his head, his smirk plain even through the grill of his helm. His violet eyes lingered on Lewyn. "This brings me back, Uncle. When you first started training us. But four against one? Thank you for the faith… though isn't this a bit much?"
Lewyn's spear twitched like a serpent ready to strike. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you sounded afraid, nephew."
Oberyn flashed his teeth. "Or maybe he just realizes how intimidating it is to face his much more handsome older brother."
Manfrey sighed audibly. Areo said nothing, his unblinking eyes on Mors waiting for him to move.
Mors's grin sharpened. "No, you misunderstand. I only worry that with so few of you… I won't be able to hold back. Someone might end up hurt. Especially my delusional older brother."
That earned a chuckle from Ashara, and Alyssa covered her mouth to hide a smile.
Doran only sighed. Somehow, whenever Oberyn, Manfrey, and Mors stood together, they reverted into children.
Oberyn, catching it, turned his smirk toward Doran. "And don't act the adult now, brother. Remember the night you and Mors drank yourselves blind and decided the fountain needed another spout? That heroic pose while pissing? Shall I demonstrate it for the ladies?"
Doran's thin smile vanished. A vein ticked at his temple. Even Lewyn chuckled.
"Enough," Lewyn said firmly. He set his stance. "Begin—we move as one!"
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They came at him together.
Lewyn struck first, spear darting like lightning. Mors caught it on the blade of his spear, spun it aside, and pivoted just as Oberyn lunged in with both blades flashing. Mors vaulted a step back, then forward, his spear butt sweeping low and knocking Oberyn's legs out from under him. He twisted mid-spin, letting the motion carry into a block as Manfrey's shield slammed down.
The clash of wood and steel rang sharp, but Mors absorbed it and shoved Manfrey back three paces with sheer force.
Areo moved then—sudden, brutal. The great axe roared through the air, but Mors slipped beneath it, using the haft as a springboard to vault up and over the giant's shoulder. He landed behind him, kicked, and sent the mountain of a man stumbling forward.
Lewyn pressed him, spear darting again and again. Mors flowed around it, every movement precise, letting the point scrape air instead of flesh. One thrust came close—Mors twisted, snatched the shaft under his arm, and with one surge of strength wrenched Lewyn nearly off his feet before shoving him clear.
Oberyn was already back, eyes gleaming with ruthless delight. He darted left, then right, blades slashing in a storm. Mors met him head-on, his own spear blurring. Sparks flared as steel kissed steel. Mors ducked, rolled, then spun—vaulting over Oberyn's shoulder and tapping his helm with the flat of his spear blade as he passed.
"Dead," Mors said with a grin.
Oberyn cursed and came at him again, faster, angrier.
Manfrey pressed in too, disciplined, controlled. His bladework was tight, precise—he was no weakling. But compared to the monsters surrounding him, he looked almost ordinary. Still, he held his ground, and Mors gave him a rare approving nod before sweeping his shield wide and disarming him with a twist.
Areo rejoined, axe carving arcs through the air. His size was monstrous, his speed shocking for it. But Mors was faster. He slid under one swing, then vaulted off the shaft of the next, flipping to land behind him once again. With a flourish, he tapped the haft against Areo's back.
"Dead again."
Even Lewyn cracked a smile at that.
The clash raged on for minutes, but there was no doubt who owned the circle. Mors seemed to glide through the spar—a dance of steel and death. Vaulting over heads, spinning around thrusts, flipping off shoulders, his athleticism was as breathtaking as it was merciless. By the time Lewyn called an end, sweat gleamed on all four of his opponents—while Mors, barely winded, spun his practice spear in a casual flourish and set its butt against the sand.
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Doran's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "Dorne has never been more dangerous."
Ashara said nothing, but her eyes never left Mors, her smile soft and radiant. Alyssa only shook her head with a dry laugh. "Monsters, the lot of them," she muttered under her breath.
Mors answered with a smirk, bowing low in exaggerated theater before snapping into a crisp salute to Lewyn.
For once, Lewyn allowed himself a rare smile. He gave a single, firm nod before turning and striding out from the grounds.
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Mors followed Oberyn back to his chambers, curiosity piqued after his brother had mentioned a "gift" following their spar. Knowing Oberyn, it would hardly be anything ordinary—though that was half the reason Mors had come.
Inside, Oberyn strode to a carved chest near the patio and hauled it onto the table. He glanced at it with a mischievous smile, then gestured for Mors to open it.
Mors lifted the lid. His eyes widened, his breath catching. He looked sharply at Oberyn.
"…Why, exactly, did you give me a head?"
Oberyn threw his head back and laughed, delighting in his own wit. "Because I feared yours was getting too big for your shoulders—and thought you could use a smaller one!" He wheezed with laughter at his own joke.
Mors only stared, unimpressed, until Oberyn finally calmed. His smirk turned cold, almost cruel. "That, little brother, is the face of the man who has been trying to have you killed since you were a boy."
Mors's expression hardened, his gaze dropping to the severed head with anger simmering behind his violet eyes. "…Who was he?"
"Archmaester Vaellyn," Oberyn spat, the name sour in his mouth. "The bastard led a ring that's been quietly culling dragonseeds and children suspected of… gifts. Anything that might threaten the Citadel's grip on their so-called learning. I arranged a little accident for his closest associates—snuffed them all at once. But Vaellyn… him, I wanted to finish myself. He was the head."
Mors was struck silent, his thoughts whirling. He could only stare at the relic of hatred in the box.
Oberyn's jaw clenched. He spat at the severed head and muttered, "He got off too easy. No one touches my family." The fury in his eyes was fire, unshakable.
Finally, Mors looked at him, his voice low but sincere. "Oberyn… thank you. Truly." He stepped forward and pulled his brother into a fierce embrace.
For the briefest moment, he thought he saw a tear on Oberyn's cheek. Sweat, perhaps. Oberyn wiped it away before it could be questioned.
"You may be taller, stronger, and—Seven curse you—just a little more handsome," Oberyn said with a crooked grin. "But I will always have your back, little brother."
"And I, yours," Mors answered.
They parted, Oberyn slinging an arm across his brother's shoulders, drawing him close again as his grin returned. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Now tell me—how in the seven hells did you get Doran drunk enough to drop that brooding mask and act like a real Prince of Dorne?"
Mors laughed, the tension at last breaking.