Mors woke to a shaft of sunlight cutting across his face. The room was quiet—too quiet. He blinked slowly, then sat up, confused. The sun had already climbed high—late morning, nearly noon.
'Strange. I never sleep this long.'
He rubbed his face, frowning. As he moved, something felt… off. Not wrong, but different. His limbs still held a trace of fatigue—but underneath that, there was something else.
More strength.
He stood, stretching experimentally. His balance had shifted, subtly. His body felt heavier in the best way—denser, more alive. He flexed his fingers. Jumped once, landing in a crouch. His muscles responded instantly.
'Could it be… that my aura wasn't fully awake before? And yesterday's events triggered something?'
The question hung in his mind—until the dizziness hit. It wasn't overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He sat back on the bed.
'Testing can wait. I need to recover properly first.'
A sudden knock. Then the door burst open—Morica, one of the palace maids, rushed in, clearly breathless.
"My prince! Are you well? I heard a noise—are you hurt?"
Mors offered a half-smile. "I'm fine, thanks, Morica. Just a little hungrier than usual."
She exhaled in relief. "Lunch will be ready soon, but if you want something light…"
"Please. That would help."
A short while later, with a tray of fruit, bread, and lemon water finished, Mors made his way to the family solar.
Doran stood over maps, studying the Stepstones with Mellario. Areo Hotah lingered like a statue nearby, eyes scanning the room with silent vigilance. But his Mother and Jeremy were absent—that worried him.
As Mors entered, Doran turned—and a long, quiet breath left him.
"Thank the gods," Doran said. "You're awake."
Mors offered a faint nod. "Still tired. But strangely… I feel better than before."
Doran raised a brow but said nothing.
Mors's sat in a chair, gaze shifted. "Mother?"
Doran's expression darkened slightly. "She's… not as well as she pretends. Joanna's death. Maron's… it's too much. She was restless all night, calling out names of the dead in her sleep. Without Jeremy, I don't know how she would've made it through the night."
Mors blinked. "Jeremy?"
Doran nodded. "He's been guarding Mother's quarters. Hasn't left her side once. I didn't realize they were that close."
'I did,' Mors thought silently. 'Or I suspected.'
Doran continued, voice quiet. "She's had more milk of the poppy, but it's been hard without Maester Orthar."
"What do you mean?"
Doran's voice flattened. "He had an accident last night. He didn't make it."
Mors stared. Then—he caught it. A flicker of something sharp in Doran's eyes. Cruelty? Rage? It was gone in a second, but Mors saw it.
He said nothing.
Doran hesitated, then added, "We're also… not certain about Aunt Mellei."
"What?" Mors straightened. "You mean she might be alive?"
Doran didn't answer immediately.
"Her body hasn't been found. We… can't rule anything out."
Silence swept the room. Mellario stood and took Doran's hand. Her presence was steady, even though her eyes were glassy. She knew her husband's heart better than most—and she could feel the storm brewing beneath his calm.
Mors stood sharply, fists clenched. Fury surged through him—not just at the pirates, but at the Free Cities, at the Crown, at the realm itself. The walls trembled faintly. Everyone in the room felt it—an invisible wave of heat and pressure, like a sudden shift in gravity.
Then it was gone.
Mors blinked down at his hands. His muscles twitched, he felt a sudden and sharp increase in strength, almost like a boost of raw energy. Then the strength vanished as quickly as it came. He staggered and sank into a chair.
Areo moved instantly. Mellario reached for him.
"I'm fine," Mors muttered.
Doran watched him, eyes sharp with calculation.
Then he exhaled. "That… whatever that was. It wasn't normal."
Mors said nothing.
Doran continued, tone thoughtful as he looked out the window. "I searched through some of our records last night. Our Valyrian blood is thin. There's no record of anything like this—no strength, no speed, no aura, no magical precedent of any kind. We've never had the chance to try taming a dragon, so there's no record of that either. Whatever you possess—it's unrecorded. Unique to you."
He paused. "But we have more pressing matters for now. We'll speak of this again. Tonight. In my solar."
Mors nodded.
Doran shifted the conversation. "I've sent word to Lewyn about Maron and Mellei. Manfrey will be devastated. And Oberyn… well. You know how he is."
Mors said nothing, but looked down in thought.
"We've also written to the Small Council about the pirate threat. But I don't expect much to come of it."
Mors's jaw clenched. "Then we'll handle it ourselves."
Doran studied him a moment. Then gave a slow, grim nod. "Yes. I think we should. But not yet. Let Mother recover first, a decision like this needs our ruler to decide. We'll move when the time is right."
The solar smelled of ink and old cedar. A low flame flickered in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the sandstone walls. Scrolls lay stacked on the long table, most left untouched. Doran stood by the window, arms folded behind his back, watching the darkening sky roll in over Sunspear. The breeze was cool—but carried an ominous edge.
Mors stepped inside, quiet but not cautious. He could feel it—tonight's conversation would not be casual.
Doran turned at the sound of the door closing behind him.
"I think you're old enough for this," he said in a low voice.
He gave a wry smile. "You've shown more discipline, more strategic sense—more restraint—than most men twice your age. Even Oberyn, though gods help me, that isn't a high bar."
Mors exhaled softly, a hint of humor in his voice. "Yeah… he's a unique case, that one."
Doran chuckled, then let the humor fade.
"I killed Maester Orthar."
Mors blinked. No buildup. No justification. Just the truth, dropped like a blade between them.
"I noticed something wrong in his eyes," Doran continued, his voice tightening. "Too much interest. Too much calculation. So I took Areo. We paid him a visit. And... we persuaded him to talk."
A pause. No apology in his tone—just weariness.
"The realm outside Dorne is dangerous enough. But you? You're something else entirely. Just your Targaryen blood makes you a target. But now... your gifts are drawing attention. Dangerous attention."
He stepped closer, eyes sharp. "You don't know this, but in the last three years or so… we've stopped three assassination attempts against you."
Mors didn't respond at first. His eyes widened, locking onto Doran in stunned silence.
Doran nodded slowly. "I didn't expect you to know. That was the point. The first came shortly after your accident—poison in your water. The rest, we stopped before they could act. But I can't say how many more might still be hiding around us."
Doran turned to Mors fully now.
"We found poison—three kinds—in the maester's quarters. Hidden compartments. There were also notes... assessments. Incomplete, thank the gods. Observations about your recovery, your strength, how quickly you were healing."
He paused.
"I don't believe the reports were ever sent. But I can't be certain. He admitted under pressure that he'd shared some details of your progress. He didn't name who, but..." Doran exhaled sharply. "My guess is the Citadel."
Mors sat, slowly. His hands gripped the edge of the chair.
"They really saw me as that much of a threat?"
Doran didn't answer. But he'd heard the stories—whispers of how the Citadel dealt with magic… and those who dared wield it. He also remembered troubling reports—boys dying in Planky Town under mysterious circumstances.
He murmured to himself, almost too softly to hear, "This might go deeper than I thought."
But Mors caught it. His brow furrowed—though he said nothing.
After a moment, he changed course.
"You're building a personal guard with Jeremy, yes?"
Mors nodded. "We've started. He was supposed to evaluate a promising recruit yesterday, but... everything got derailed."
"Good. Make sure it includes people skilled in assassination, countermeasures, interrogation. You need people who think like assassins—and know how to find them."
He hesitated, then added, "I'll help with that."
Mors looked at him with something unreadable, as if seeing something for the first time he hadn't let himself believe until now.
Doran caught it and smiled faintly. "I know. Surprised, huh? Just remember—it takes more than honor to stay Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken. Especially when the might of six kingdoms—seven, if you count the Riverlands—comes to conquer you, led by dragonriders."
He paused, his voice softening. "Everything I know... I learned from Mother."
Mors nodded dumbly once. "I see..."
And for the first time, he saw Doran not just as his brother—but as a man shaped to lead, trained to fight, and willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure Dorne's survival and success.
He saw him—truly—as The Prince of Dorne.