Fire…
The world was burning. Fire raged wherever he looked, devouring everything… devouring all. He stood helpless, unable to move.
In an instant, the world twisted, and he was standing in a throne room, though twisted and unrecognizable in the blaze consumed by fire, its shape barely familiar. A shrill, insane cackling echoed above the roar. Mors turned—and there, upon a throne wreathed in flames, sat King Aerys. Blood streamed from his eyes, mouth, and hands. His hair blazed like a torch, yet the laughter only grew louder as he burned.
Then Aerys saw him. The laughter cut short. His lips curled in a crooked smile.
"Reward," he hissed—before bursting into mad cackling once again.
At the base of the throne, a silver snake slithered forward. Its eyes gleamed as it fixed on Mors, its cruel smile unmistakably human. Its tongue lashed out unnaturally long, brushing across Mors's face. He tried to move but couldn't. The serpent shuddered in ecstasy as it tasted him, then drew back and whispered in a hissing drawl:
"My deeeear cousin."
The vision shifted. The throne room vanished. Now he stood amid a burning city. Charred corpses littered the streets, their empty sockets picked apart by feasting ravens.
Before his eyes, a towering spire rose, impossibly high, its peak lost in smoke and flame. At its summit hung a gilded cage. Inside swayed a Dornish flower—delicate, defiant, calling to him. She stretched toward him, her voice frail but desperate:
"Mors… save me."
He reached, but his body refused him. The cage drifted further away.
Then the fire broke. A sudden chill swept in from the north. Black clouds rolled down, trailing frost and death. Ice crawled across the land, freezing all it touched. His own limbs stiffened, breath turning to mist. Again, he was trapped. Helpless.
'I need to get out…'
'I can't move…'
'It's all falling apart!'
And then—warmth.
He turned, and saw her.
A breathtaking woman stepped forward through the fire and ice with effortless grace. Tall and striking, her figure was voluptuous and commanding, draped in flowing silks of violet and silver that shimmered like starlight. Her obsidian-black hair spilled in glossy waves, framing eyes of luminous violet—bright, mischievous, and dangerous, yet filled with warmth.
Even through his frozen body, her presence radiated heat—radiated love.
The frost cracked and fire dimmed as she drew closer.
Her lips parted, her voice cutting through dream, through ice and fire alike:
"Wake up."
–––––––––––––––––
Late 278 AC – Redwine Straights, The Reach
Mors woke with a start. He glanced left, then right—Ashara still lay asleep beside him, breathing deep and steady. He let out a long breath.
"Another nightmare," he muttered.
He rubbed his brow and stayed there a moment. 'They've been a constant since that day…' He remembered the throne room—the mad cackling, the false smiles, the thunderous applause.
'I was close to starting the rebellion myself,' he thought, the edge in him colder than the dream.
With a quiet sigh, he carefully eased Ashara's arm from around him and swung his legs over the bed—only to jerk them back at once.
There, curled on the floor, was Malora. She clutched the glass candle to her chest as if it were a child's toy, a line of drool shining at the corner of her mouth. Mors twitched at the sight, then shook his head with a reluctant smile. This had become routine—no matter what they did, Malora always found some new and ingenious way to sneak into their chamber. Ashara and Mors had nearly given up trying to stop her.
He dressed quietly and slipped out.
The creak of wood and the salt on the air reminded him he wasn't in Sunfort. He stepped onto the deck, where the first light of dawn brushed the sea in shades of silver. Sailors saluted as he passed. Ahead, the great tower of Oldtown rose above the mists, the Hightower catching the morning sun.
'We'll reach the harbor in a few hours,' he thought. 'I should wake Ashara and Malora before long.'
It had been almost two months since the wedding. Now, at last, they were bound for Oldtown—for a long-overdue conversation with Lord Leyton Hightower.
Mors let his eyes linger on the distant tower, a monument of stone and history. He exhaled slowly.
"This should be an interesting conversation," he murmured.
–––––––––––––––––
Late 278 AC – The Hightower, Oldtown
The Stepstones contingent made port at dawn. Mors, Ashara, Malora, Jeremy, Qerrin, and more dismounted. There, waiting on the quay, stood Ser Baelor Hightower and his younger brother, Ser Garth "Greysteel," only a year Mors's junior. Mors remembered him faintly from the old courtship tour, though they had barely exchanged more than a few words.
Baelor stepped forward with a soldier's salute, clasping forearms with Mors. "Prince Mors, you honor us with your visit. Our lord father was glad to hear of your coming. I present my brother, Ser Garth. We are here to receive you, your lady wife… and Malora. Welcome back."
Malora skipped past Mors and Ashara, arms swinging. "Baelor, Garth! Playing at lords, are we? Especially you, Garth—still pretending you're Uncle Gerold the White Bull, or the Dragonknight himself? Though I doubt you'd give up the courtesan houses to do it!"
Garth went crimson, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could go on. He turned awkwardly toward Mors, stammering, "P-Prince Mors, your reputation precedes you." He paused, visibly struggling to contain his embarrassment, while everyone else tried not to laugh. "Let us proceed to the Hightower. Our father awaits. Princess Ashara."
Ashara dipped into a graceful curtsey, still hiding a smile. "Ser Baelor. Ser Garth."
–––––––––––––––––
Carriages carried them through Oldtown to the Hightower itself, that vast spire rising impossibly high above land and sea. Leyton Hightower was waiting outside with his steward. After the formal breaking of bread and salt, they climbed to the lord's solar—higher and higher until the sea was no more than a haze below.
The chamber was dim but warm, shutters drawn against the ocean wind. Tapers cast a golden glow as Lord Leyton seated himself. His heirs flanked him: Baelor, steady with a bright smile, and Garth, trying to look composed after Malora's earlier jab.
Mors entered with Ashara at his side. Ser Jeremy Norridge followed, while Ser Qerrin Toland remained outside with the guards. Malora skipped ahead, humming to herself, before flopping backward into a chair with a dramatic thump.
"Prince Mors," Leyton greeted gravely, though his eyes softened. "At last. We have much to speak of. Princess Ashara—welcome. Ser Jeremy. Malora, child—home again."
"See, Daddy?" Malora twirled with arms outstretched. "I told you I'd bring him. And I did! With sister Ashara too—wrapped up like a gift!" She giggled, nearly toppling her chair.
Ashara pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. Mors only shook his head.
Baelor muttered under his breath, "Seven save me, I didn't miss this…"
Garth seemed to also want to agree.
But Leyton silenced them with a look.
Soon the pleasantries faded. Leyton leaned forward, voice dropping. "Prince Mors, you recall the letter I sent months ago, when Malora first came to you?"
"I do," Mors said evenly. His eyes slid toward Malora, who was now balancing a candlestick on her head. "And I've learned what you asked of me. She may appear… eccentric. But she has true gifts. Actual magic. I'd be a fool to ignore them."
Malora beamed. "See, Daddy? He gets it!"
Leyton's expression darkened. "Good. You understand her value. Her visions are rare, and seldom clear. But when it comes to you, Prince Mors, they are sharper, clear even. Enough that they unsettle even me. They point to a shadow coming for the realm. A threat so dire it may unmake us all. And our survival—House Hightower's, Dorne's, the realm's—may rest on you."
Malora clapped. "Daddy, tell him the fun part!"
Leyton gave a long sigh, then allowed himself a dry smile. "Since you are Dornish, I suppose I might say—you could take her as a concubine, if you wished. I would not object. Even the other lords wouldn't cause us trouble considering how strong the faith of the seven is in the reach, thanks in great part to her… ah, reputation. But, that's just my wish as a father, she can help you tremendously in what is to come and being with you would be our blessing."
Ashara arched a brow. Malora winked at Mors. "Told you, didn't I?"
Mors's eyes widened. Lord Leyton had hinted at such things in his letters, but hearing it spoken so openly left no doubt leaving him speechless.
Jeremy, sensing the awkward silence, cleared his throat, bringing the conversation back. "These shadows you speak of, Lord Leyton… they don't bode well. Could this all tie back to King Aerys? Breaking tradition by shattering Ser Baelor's betrothal to Princess Elia was reckless enough. To dress it up as a 'reward' for Prince Mors—it felt like a whim. I have known the king many years, but he is no longer the man he was. He is… slipping…" He stopped himself, unwilling to finish the thought.
Mors did it for him. "…Into madness."
Ashara's voice cut in, sharp with anger. "It was cruelty none of us expected. Elia deserves far better than to be dragged into such games."
Baelor's jaw tightened. "And I will not forget the insult."
Garth ground his teeth. "If it were mine to decide, I'd lead our banners now and—"
"Enough," Leyton cut in, steel sharpening his tone. "The realm rots. This new master of whisperers, Varys, is more dangerous than we assumed. He whispers in the king's ear, and Aerys now sees traitors in every shadow. It began with Lady Serala of Myr, Denys Darklyn's wife—he burned her alive. Since then, fire has become his answer to everything. Smallfolk, servants, even knights branded as 'treacherous'… all consigned to the flames. How long before it is his counselors? His lords?"
He fell into a grim silence, then spoke again, voice low. "There is a saying about the Targaryens. They say it was King Jaehaerys himself who first spoke it: 'Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss it, and the world holds its breath.' No offense, Prince Mors. You bear the name Martell, but your blood is no less theirs."
"None taken," Mors replied with a thin smile. "I have eyes, my lord. I see the same shadows you do."
Silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, until Malora toppled right out of her chair with a thud.
"Hah—what? Lemon cake?" she blurted, blinking as she rubbed her backside with one hand and stretched with the other. "Did someone say lemon cake?"
The others could only watch in a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
After shaking his head, Lord Leyton revealed what none had expected. "Oldtown has not been idle. We command hidden strength—ten thousand elite, trained and equipped, ready to answer my call. Not counting levies. Riches gathered over generations. When the time comes, they will be unleashed."
Malora cackled, clapping like a girl at a mummer's show. "Surprise!"
Leyton only smiled, proud to see his daughter delight in his performance.
Ashara's brow furrowed. "Lord Leyton, you sit in Oldtown, in the very heart of the Citadel. They've already tried to kill Mors once, and they'll try again. If they learn you're allying with him, won't that put all of this at risk?"
Leyton's expression hardened. "I know. The Citadel has long worked to snuff out magic—helped kill the dragons, plotted against any spark of the arcane. My forebears aligned with them. I do not. Since Malora's birth, I've chosen another path. I won't sacrifice my daughter to their 'greater good.'"
He leaned closer. "I've learned that they gather strength again. But I'll strike first. I have allies—even among them. Archmaester Walgrave—father to Walys, maester at Winterfell—is my confidant. Keep that secret. No one must know."
Malora clapped again. "Isn't Daddy clever? He'll burn them all away, and we'll be free!"
Her cheerful cruelty made Mors grimace. Ashara shot him a knowing glance. Baelor sighed, but Garth actually smiled with pride.
Leyton folded his hands. "We will help you, Prince Mors—ships, soldiers, gold. Oldtown will be ready when the storm breaks. All I ask is that you be ready as well." He hesitated, a rare crack in his composure. "The trouble is… we don't yet know what form that storm will take. Do you?"
Mors hesitated, then spoke carefully. "There are storms coming. A smaller one soon, no less dangerous. But the true war—the fight for our lives—may be decades away."
Leyton exhaled, relief softening his stern features. "Good. Then we have time to prepare. And when it comes, we will be ready."
Mors inclined his head. "As will we."
–––––––––––––––––
They spent a week in Oldtown as guests of Lord Leyton Hightower. During that time, Mors and Ashara were introduced to the other Hightower daughters. Yet it was quickly clear they did not look kindly upon Malora, whose quirks drew scorn rather than patience. For Mors and Ashara, that was enough to turn their attention elsewhere. How could anyone look down on that sweet roll of a girl?
Mors sparred with both Baelor and Garth—first separately, then together. His skill left them astonished. At last, Garth's skepticism broke into outright admiration. Dropping to one knee, he declared Mors reincarnated from the Age of Heroes, the Warrior reborn, and offered himself as sworn shield. Mors blinked awkwardly at Baelor, uncertain how to respond. After a long sigh, Baelor gave a small nod. Mors accepted, and so his retinue grew once more.
Their week was eventful. They visited the Citadel, the Starry Sept, and the guildhalls. Trade agreements were negotiated with the Hightowers and with House Redwyne through a representative. But just as their departure neared, a surprise awaited.
On their final day, a steward arrived with a message.
"Prince Mors, Lord Leyton requests your presence in his solar. At your earliest convenience, of course."
"I'm free now," Mors replied at once. "Lead the way."
The solar was warm with candlelight, and within stood a wetnurse cradling a baby with golden curls and striking blue eyes. Mors's brow furrowed in confusion as he turned to Leyton.
"My lord, we were preparing to depart. I hadn't expected your summons. Has something happened?"
Leyton's smile was tight. He glanced at the wetnurse, then back to Mors.
"You could say so. This is Lemore, a servant of our house. She holds little Tyene—who, we believe, is Oberyn's daughter."
Mors's eyes widened. He stepped closer, studying the babe.
"My niece?" His voice carried disbelief. The child's pale coloring and golden hair gave him pause. "Are you certain?"
Leyton joined him beside the wetnurse. "I know what you see, but yes. We confirmed it before telling you. Oberyn… seduced a septa. Drinks were involved from my understanding. She refused to leave her vows, yet after learning you were here, she came to the Hightower with her child. Tyene was born in the middle of last year—nearly one now."
Mors looked down at the babe, reaching out with his aura. At once he felt the familiar tug, the same thread that tied him to his blood. She was kin—there was no mistaking it. His expression softened, and he carefully took Tyene into his arms.
"Thank you, Lord Leyton. This is no small matter. I'll see she reaches Sunspear and meets the rest of our family. Oberyn… well, he may be many things, but he is mad for his kin. He'll be overjoyed." His smile was warm as he gently brushed a finger over Tyene's curls.
He looked to the wetnurse. "And thank you, my lady, for caring for her."
Flustered, the woman shook her head. "No need, my lord. I'm no lady and It's my duty."
Mors inclined his head, then glanced back at Leyton. "Could you please ensure that the mother is taken care of? If you'll excuse me, it's time little Tyene met Ashara and the rest. Will you be at the docks to see us off?"
Leyton allowed a small laugh, his mood easing. "Of course. I must bid farewell to you, Princess Ashara, Malora, and now even Garth. It seems the Martells are determined to carry off all my family."
Mors grinned. "It's our pleasure to have them."
–––––––––––––––––
After presenting little Tyene Sand to Ashara and Malora, both were delighted to dote on her. Lemore stayed close as wetnurse, ensuring the babe was well fed. As Ashara played with baby Tynese, she gave Mors a hungry look that made him shiver.
Malora, never one to hold her tongue, chimed in brightly, "Morsy, you should put one in my belly too! Then we'd have more little ones to play with in Sunfort!"
Mors's smile went stiff. Between Ashara's burning eyes and Malora's teasing, he felt cornered. Thankfully, Ser Garth stepped in. "Malora, enough of your nonsense. Tone it down until we're gone—you'll have all of Oldtown thinking you're in heat."
Malora's eyes lit with mischief. "Oh? Are you jealous? Afraid I'll have a babe with Morsy while you only watch from afar?"
Garth's face twitched. "What are you babbling about? I'm straight—straight! You're the one who says I'm always at the courtesan houses. Where is this coming from?"
Malora clapped her hands, eyes twinkling. "So you admit it! Always in the courtesan houses—ha! Can't find a girl without paying for her?"
Mors thought he saw steam rising from Garth's head. "You—get back here!"
Cackling, Malora darted off with Garth in hot pursuit.
Ashara, still rocking Tyene, smiled in quiet amusement. "They're such good brothers… I miss mine. And little Allyria. Could we stop at Starfall on our way back?"
Mors slipped an arm around her waist. "Of course, my moon and stars."
Together they watched, smiling, as Malora's laughter echoed through the hall and Garth chased after her.