Early 279 AC – Great Sept of Baelor, King's Landing
The sun glinted off the domed marble of the Great Sept of Baelor and its seven slender crystal towers, each one sparkling like a prism in the morning light. Below, rows upon rows of people crowded the square, gathered to witness the marriage of the Crown Prince of the Iron Throne—the Silver Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen—and the flower of Dorne, Princess Elia Martell.
The bride and groom stood in splendor. Rhaegar was clad in black and crimson silk, his chest emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of his house, a silver circlet resting upon his pale hair. Elia wore flowing robes of Martell colors—sunset orange and deep red, stitched with threads of gold—her dark eyes radiant, her smile resplendent and proud. Together they looked every inch the union of fire and sun.
People craned their necks for a glimpse of the honored pair. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm had come: Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Robert Baratheon, young Eddard Stark, and Ser Elbert Arryn among them. Yet one absence overshadowed the grandeur. King Aerys and Queen Rhaella were not in attendance. Aerys, fearing assassination, had refused to appear, naming his instead his trusted advisor Prince Mors Targaryen to stand in his place, a 'great honor'. For Elia, Prince Doran Martell stood as her house's witness.
Despite the brilliance of the day, the air felt heavy for Mors, almost overcast. Even amid the splendor, a weight pressed against his chest. The vows, the cheers, the spectacle—most of all Rhaegar's smile which he directed his way—left him hollow, near sickened.
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Later That Evening — The Red Keep
The nobles had been celebrating since midday. The Red Keep echoed with laughter, music, and the clatter of cups. There was feasting, dancing, and even a few drunken attempts at song. At one point, Rhaegar took up his harp, drawing the attention of half the hall.
Mors tried to enjoy the evening in Ashara's company, dancing with her and drinking enough to dull his thoughts. She shone that night—her beauty was such that many lords could not help but stare. though Mors's reputation was enough to make wandering eyes quickly look away.
Doran approached with Mellario on his arm, smiling warmly. Mors returned it, though it never touched his eyes. Oberyn soon joined them, Syrana Qho at his side. Oberyn had brought young Maron Sand along to partake in the festivities of his aunt, though by this hour he was asleep in a servant's care.
"Princess Ashara, Mors," Doran began. "Elia looked beautiful, didn't she?"
Mors wanted to say many things but only sighed. "…Stunning. Absolutely stunning. I see Uncle Lewyn has begun his new role as her sworn shield."
They all glanced toward the high table. Elia laughed among the ladies of court while Prince Lewyn Martell stood close behind her, armored and stern. Rhaegar had suggested he take the white cloak, but after long talks with Mors, Lewyn had refused. Instead, he swore himself only to Elia, with no vows or lords to stand in the way of her safety.
Rhaegar had not liked it, though only Mors noticed the flicker of distaste before the crown prince "happily" agreed. Now, Elia was ringed by Lewyn's guards—Spears of the Sun and loyal companions—among them Alyssa Uller, her constant shadow.
Oberyn leaned back with a sly grin. "Oh, I heard something interesting, Mors—there may be another grand tourney on the horizon. Nothing certain yet, but they say it could rival, even outshine, Lord Tywin's spectacle at Lannisport. So tell me, brother… ready to win your champion's crown back?"
Doran's brow lifted, curiosity piqued.
Mors smiled faintly. 'Finally. All we need is a date…' "Do you know who's hosting it and when, Oberyn?"
Oberyn scratched at his jaw. "That's the odd part. Supposedly Lord Whent—but does he even have the gold for something like this? From my understanding, Harrenhal's a money pit. They should barely have the coin to keep the place standing, let alone fund something like this. Something doesn't add up… No date yet, but I'd wager it will be within the next year or two."
Mors and Doran exchanged a look, the same thought crossing both their minds. Oberyn might be a hothead, but a fool he was not.
As they spoke, Lord Jon Arryn approached with his nephew Ser Elbert.
"Good evening, my princes, princess, my ladies," Jon greeted.
"Lord Arryn," they replied politely.
Jon gave a grave nod. "Forgive the interruption. I wished to speak on my foster son's behalf. Robert still reels from his parents' deaths. In his grief, he has spoken out… unjustly. He does not truly believe his words against Dorne and the Stepstones, but he is not yet himself. I ask you—please, do not take it to heart."
"Of course," Doran said gently. "We know grief—and the rashness it brings. Our grudges are for true enemies, not mourning sons. In truth, generations of Martells dealing with Baratheons have shown us we share the same fire of temper. We understand it well enough."
Mors glanced toward Robert, who was drinking heavily, pawing at a maid before Eddard Stark pulled him away. From the look of him, apology was not his intent. "I understand, Lord Arryn," Mors said. "So long as it ends here, there need be no animosity."
Jon gave a weary smile and gestured to his nephew. "This is my heir, Ser Elbert Arryn. He's near your age—it would do you all well to be acquainted."
They exchanged courtesies, though Oberyn's patience was thin. His voice rose, sharp and cutting:
"Lord Arryn, Ser Elbert—I hear your words. But should Robert not be the one speaking them? He barred my brothers from Steffon Baratheon's funeral, denying them the right to mourn a lord of the realm. And as if that insult weren't enough, he has publicly cursed my younger brother. Why should we be silent while he spits on us?"
"Oberyn!" Doran cut him off sharply.
Lords nearby turned at the rising tension. Jon looked pained, Elbert uneasy. Before more could be said, Robert's voice thundered across the hall.
"You bastards! Dornish whores! I'll gut you all! Come, silver-haired dragon—fight me if you dare! I'll kill you! I'll kill you all! Let me go, Ned!"
Eddard tried to restrain him, but Robert tore free, shouting incoherently.
Oberyn smirked at Jon. "So this is your apology? He's sorry, aye—sorry he can't strike Mors down right here."
Jon's face fell. "Forgive us. We will take him away before worse comes of it. Elbert my boy—come."
After Jon Arryn left, Mors and Doran turned to Oberyn with the same look, Oberyn looked uncomfortable, "What? It's the truth."
Mors said evenly, "I agree with you, brother, but…" His gaze shifted toward the high table. "Fortunately, it seems Rhaegar and Elia slipped out earlier. Despite my thoughts on everything, this is still Elia's night—let's not turn it into a spectacle at her expense."
Oberyn's shoulders eased, and he gave a reluctant nod, like a chastised child.
Just then, a commotion broke out near Jon Arryn's company.
"Out of the way!" Robert Baratheon roared, driving a right hook into Elbert and felling him with a single blow. Then he charged at Mors with the fury of a bull, bellowing, "Ours is the Fury!"
As Robert rushed towards him, Mors turned to Ashara and his brothers. "Step back. I'll handle this."
"Ahhhh!" Robert roared, charging.
Mors sidestepped with cold precision, caught him by the arm, and brought him crashing down with a clean throw. One sharp punch to the jaw and Robert lay still. Rising smoothly, Mors dusted off his sleeve.
"It's over. Please, continue," he said calmly to the hall, then glanced at Jon and the others. "Best get him to bed. He won't wake soon."
Elbert, now sporting a swollen eye from Robert's earlier swing, looked comically disheveled. Jon and Ned exchanged wary looks, both startled by how effortlessly Mors had felled the Storm Lord… Robert was already 6'5" (196cm) with over 250 lbs of pure muscle and mass.
Ned spoke at last after a sigh. "My lords, Prince Mors… Robert's conduct was shameful. Thank you for showing restraint, though well within your right for more. My brother Brandon once told me you were a man of honor, someone that deserves respect. Tonight proves him right. Know this—the North remembers both its grudges and its debts."
He bowed his head, then helped Elbert drag Robert from the hall, Jon following close behind.
Oberyn laughed, clapping Mors on the back. "Seven hells, brother—that was beautiful! I only wish he'd charged me instead." He turned to Syrana with a wolfish grin. "The dance floor misses me, my lady. Will you honor me?"
Syrana arched a brow. "Well, I suppose I must. If I don't, there's no telling what trouble you'll stir up."
Oberyn's smirk widened as he offered her his arm. "Ah, but you always seem to end up in that trouble with me, my lady. Perhaps tonight we'll find others willing to share in it. That couple there looks promising—shall we?"
Doran lingered, as though he wished to say more, but only managed, "We should rejoin the lords. Brother… we'll speak later?"
Mors sighed before giving a small nod. Doran's lips curved in a faint smile, and he left at Mellario's side.
As she passed, Mellario touched Mors's arm lightly. "Enjoy the rest of the night, Mors. Your worries will still be waiting come tomorrow."
Ashara leaned close, her smile sly. "Quite an entertaining hour, sunny. But will this cause trouble? Robert Baratheon is Lord of the Stormlands."
Mors's face hardened. "Yes. He hasn't calmed in a year. This is a grudge now… one that may grow."
'If Robert were ever to sit the Iron Throne with this hatred in his heart… it would spell ill for Dorne and the Stepstones,' Mors thought grimly.
He forced a lighter tone, offering her his hand. "Another dance, my lady?"
"My lady?" Ashara smirked. "I'll have you know I'm a princess. But very well—you may indulge me. Just this once."
The evening carried on—dancing, drinking, and murmurs of tension between kingdoms. And beneath it all, Mors knew, more conversations would follow.
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Three Days Later – King's Landing Port
Since the wedding, the skies had been gray and heavy—fitting well with Mors's mood. Rhaegar and Elia had departed for Dragonstone the morning after their vows, though at least she had Prince Lewyn and Alyssa by her side. Now, on the docks, the Stepstones contingent was preparing to depart, sailors finishing the last of the loading.
Daro approached, bowing his head.
"My prince, there is a man from the Red Keep here to see you. He says his name is Varys."
Mors blinked in surprise. "Varys? … Let him come, Daro."
As Daro left, Mors frowned. 'Why wait until now? What's he after?'
Moments later Daro returned, leading a cloaked figure. The man moved with soft, deliberate steps and spoke the moment he drew near.
"Ah, Prince Mors," he said smoothly. "I'm so very glad I caught you before you sailed. You are not easy to find alone."
Mors studied him: plump, bald, powdered, and perfumed, lavender cutting sharp through a swirl of other scents. Beneath the cloak he could just glimpse rich silks.
"Lord Varys," Mors said evenly. "It's… unexpected. You've had days to seek me out. What matter could not wait until now?"
Varys gave a small, sycophantic laugh. "Oh, I am no lord, my prince. Merely an orphan from Pentos, lucky enough to find work." For a fleeting instant Mors felt something slip from him—a sharp sense of anger and malice when he said that, which was surprising considering Varys always felt… neutral. He filed it away, masking his reaction.
"But as to business," Varys continued, lowering his voice and casting quick glances about. "As His Majesty's most trusted servant, I thought it prudent to warn you. My little birds whisper of… dangers. Whispers of plots, threats aimed at your life. I cannot yet say from where they come."
Mors widened his eyes in feigned alarm. "Dangers? Speak plainly."
Varys inclined his head. "Ah, yes… my little birds whisper of danger stirring in your direction. From where, I cannot yet say. But with all the noise of late, one begins to wonder…"
Mors tighten his brows at that, 'Is Varys… trying to make me wary of Robert?'
"You couldn't mean Robert Baratheon. He's a raging bull—you'd see him coming a league away. He hasn't the finesse for shadows and daggers. Varys, speak plainly. What do you know?" Mors's gaze fixed on him, sharp and unyielding, like a dragon poised to strike.
Varys flinched, taking half a step back. In that moment Mors caught something odd—his dark eyes, so carefully soft, seemed to hold the faintest flicker of violet.
The eunuch quickly composed himself, hands folding together. "My prince, forgive me. I cannot share all I know. But believe this: I want only the best for the realm. And there are… players, shall we say, who would see you removed from the board. Be cautious—and beware those who approach with smiles."
He bowed, and before Mors could press further, the eunuch melted into the flow of the docks, vanishing down a narrow street.
Mors remained still, frowning—not at the warning, but at the truth he had felt in that slip of emotion.
'Smugness—he thinks he convinced me. Malice—he wants me gone. Happiness—his plans are unfolding? So… Varys is no ally. He's a foe… Unfortunate.'
He exhaled slowly, then called, "Ser Qerrin."
Qerrin Toland strode over. "My prince."
"Send a raven to Arodan," Mors said, voice flat. "Tell him to put men in Pentos. Look for someone close to Varys—a merchant, maybe a magister. The name is Ilyrio Mopatis, or something like it. Find out everything he can about him, and about Varys's past."
Qerrin gave a curt nod. "At once."
As he left, Mors looked back toward the city, muttering, "If they think I'll play as their pawn in this 'game of thrones,' they're mistaken."
"Game of thrones?" a voice questioned behind him.
Mors turned to find Ashara, bright-eyed in a sea-blue gown. "Never mind that. Did you need something?"
She smiled. "Not really. I came to see if you'd play Cyvasse with me while we wait."
He smirked. "I thought we weren't playing anymore, after I 'cheated.'"
"You did cheat!" she shot back, planting her hands on her hips. "There was no way you could've won otherwise."
Mors chuckled. "All right then. Best two out of three?"
Ashara caught his hand, tugging him toward the ship with a grin. "Deal. Come on."
Mors allowed himself a small smile as he followed. For a little while, at least, he could set Varys's shadows aside.
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One Month Later – Sunfort Training Yard, The Stepstones
It was late morning. The last few days had been cloudy, though shafts of sunlight broke through here and there. One such beam lit a ridiculous sight in the training yard.
Ser Garth Hightower was trudging around with a weighted pack strapped to his back, soaked clothes caked in sand. Despite his prowess as a knight, training with the Spears of the Sun and Mors's guard demanded new skills—stealth, endurance, Dornish martial techniques. Ser Daven Quarr oversaw him, with Ser Qerrin Toland and Ser Jeremy Norridge rotating instruction. Here, Garth would earn the name "Greysteel" anew.
But today, he had an extra "helper."
Malora rode Vezar, Mors's black sand-steed, trailing behind Garth and occasionally pelting him with pebbles. She sang merrily:
"Garth, Garthy, runs so fast,
I fear his hair won't ever last!
Spurs go jingle, reins pull tight,
Still my brother flees in fright!"
A vein throbbed on Garth's brow. He finally snapped. "Seven hells, Malora! I'm training! Go play with your candles—or burn a raven, you wretch!" He choked as sand got in his mouth. Cough, cough.
Malora pulled up beside him, mock-serious. "No slacking off, recruit! One thousand more laps, or you'll eat sand for supper!"
Still coughing, Garth glared. "The—cough—seven hells—cough—just give me water!"
Malora held up a skin. "Oh, this water? I drank it already. Silly me."
"Just… kill me," Garth wheezed.
Daven finally intervened, shaking his head. "All right, enough. Garth, drink. Ten more laps after your break." His eyes flicked at Malora with pointed emphasis on ten.
Malora gasped. "Only ten? Boring! Oh, I know!" Her eyes lit up wickedly. "Brother, if you finish a hundred laps, I'll get you half-off at Sister Syrana's courtesan house!"
Both Garth and Daven froze.
Garth shouted, "Nonsense! Do I look like that sort of man?" He lowered his voice, glancing about. "You… you're not joking, are you? Not like last time?"
Daven leaned closer too, pretending not to listen but clearly listening.
"Of course!" Malora beamed. "But only if you do two hundred."
"Two hundred?! You said one hundred!" Garth fumed.
At that moment, Mors and Ashara walked into the yard after their own training. Ashara giggled; Mors sighed and facepalmed, his hand staying there longer than usual.
Malora spotted them first. "Sister Ashara!" She dismounted and ran to hug her.
Ashara, eyes gleaming, embraced her back. "Quite lively this morning. Now, what was that about courtesan houses and three hundred laps?"
Garth went red. "It was one hundred! I mean—none at all! Excuse me!" He bolted off.
Daven gave a stiff nod. "My prince. My princess." Then hurried after him, absolutely not fleeing Ashara's smirk.
Vezar nudged Mors. He stroked the horse's mane. "Tired of being cooped up? Want another run in the Dornish sands?" The steed pranced in a circle as if answering yes.
"Next month, then," Mors said with a smile. He turned to Ashara and Malora. "We could spend some time at the Water Gardens. It'll do us good."
Ashara's face lit up. "A wonderful idea, Mors!"
Malora hopped. "Can I come? Can I come?"
"Yes, Malora," Mors said with weary fondness. "I'd be afraid to leave you here. No telling what you and Naerya would get into."
Malora flushed, smiling as though he'd praised her.
"That wasn't praise…" Mors muttered under his breath, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Ashara laughed openly and pulled Malora into a hug.
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That Evening – Lord's Solar, Sunfort
Mors sat alone, reports spread before him. The Stepstones' performance had exceeded all expectations. Since Dorne began producing glass, toll revenues had surged, transforming both Dorne and the Stepstones into rising powers of wealth. A new glass foundry was already under construction on a strategically selected island south of Sunfort—an anchor for future industries. By design, Dorne would focus on fine, aesthetic glass, while the Stepstones would specialize in research and military applications.
Wealth, however, brought enemies. Pirates had begun testing their defenses, but intelligence already traced the attacks back to Volantis and Lys. With Myr's near ruin, those two cities had divided the spoils and were now scrambling to revive their own glass trade. Yet Dornish and Stepstones growth continued to choke their ambitions.
A knock broke his thoughts.
"Enter," Mors called.
Ser Jeremy Norridge stepped in with Maester Orwyn, both wearing grim faces.
A heaviness settled in Mors's chest. 'Oh no… what now?'
"Jeremy, Orwyn," he said, voice measured. "Is something the matter?"
Jeremy glanced at Orwyn before stepping forward with a letter in hand. "I'm afraid so, my prince. Word from King's Landing."
Mors's brows knit as he took the letter. "King's Landing?" He open it and scanned the lines. His eyes widened; suddenly he was on his feet.
"What?! No… this doesn't make sense. This isn't right!"
Jeremy and Orwyn exchanged a look at his outburst, but held their tongues.
Jeremy cleared his throat. "Yes, my prince. Shocking indeed. The king has imprisoned Lord Jon Arryn and now demands the 'traitor' Robert Baratheon surrender. The charge is threatening to kill princes of the Iron Throne. It isn't specified which prince… but the only one he threatened publicly was you."
Mors froze, staring at the parchment as if it might change. 'This is all wrong… Where is Harrenhal? Where is Lyanna and Rhaegar? Have I shifted things this far?'
He sank back into his chair, silent for a long while. Jeremy and Orwyn waited, uneasy.
At last, Mors raised his head, eyes sharp with resolve. "Lord Hand Jeremy."
Jeremy straightened at the formal address. "At your orders, my prince."
"Quietly prepare the troops. We move to a state of war readiness. No one must know. But if I'm right, war is coming."
Jeremy's eyes widened, then he bowed. "It will be done, my prince."
Mors continued, voice hardening, "Inform Syenna and Arodan. Eliminate the marked spies and double down on uncovering others—nothing can leak."
Mors turned to the maester. "Orwyn, send a coded raven to Doran. Tell him the same—he must ready Dorne."
"At once, my prince," Orwyn said, already turning for the door.
When they had gone, Mors sat alone again. His jaw tightened, his voice low.
"And I… need to get Elia back."