There was silence in the room
Doran turned back to the window, voice steady. "I said all this so you'd understand the truth. This isn't just talent. What happened yesterday—and today—this is something else entirely."
He turned again. His eyes were quiet, but firm.
"This is magic, Mors. I never believed in it before. But I do now."
Silence passed between them. The fire crackled once.
Then Mors spoke.
"It started with the fall," he said. "After I woke, things just… changed. I was stronger. Faster. I healed quicker. I could think more clearly. React better. Everything felt sharper. And the more I trained, the more it grew. Like it amplified my growth the harder I pushed."
Doran nodded, almost to himself. "So that explains the... unusual training routines."
Mors winced slightly. "Some were stupid. Swimming in quicksand might've been... ill-advised."
Doran chuckled. "And suicidal."
Mors smirked, then continued. "Over time, I started to notice something else. When I trained with others—if I really focused, really got into it—they got better too. Faster. Sharper. More in sync."
Doran straightened. "You projected it?"
"Not intentionally," Mors said. "But it happened. And it drained me faster when it did. Not enough to collapse, but noticeable. I can sustain a light projection... indefinitely, as long as I don't push too hard."
Doran's face shifted from intrigue to astonishment.
"The applications... do you realize how valuable that is? Gods, you could empower entire units."
"I haven't tested how far it can go," Mors admitted. "Yesterday and today... were accidents. I lost control."
Doran's expression darkened. "Then we need to be careful. You can't afford to misstep."
Mors nodded, then hesitated.
Doran saw it immediately. "There's more?"
Mors met his gaze, voice quieter now. "Today... after you mentioned Mellei might still be alive—I felt something different. Stronger. Sharper. I didn't just project. I changed. My strength—doubled. It felt like I tapped into a deeper layer."
Doran blinked. For once, he looked completely unmoored.
"You... triggered it on emotion?"
"I think so," Mors said. "I wanted to be stronger. And I was. Just for a moment."
Doran turned away and walked to the window again, gripping the edge of the frame.
"That's... gods. In a duel, in battle—"
"It's not limitless," Mors interrupted. "It drained me badly. But yes. It's real."
Doran stayed silent for a long moment.
Then he turned. "We need to train you. Immediately. Strategically. If this gets out... if someone catches wind of what you are before we're ready—"
"They'll kill me," Mors said quietly.
"Yes," Doran agreed grimly. "Or worse—they might try to experiment on you."
They let that settle.
Then Doran exhaled. "I'll have to tell Mother. She needs to know."
Mors nodded. "Aside from her... we should tell the others too."
"Elia?" Doran asked.
"Yes. Oberyn. Lewyn. Manfrey. Jeremy, obviously. He's completely loyal."
Doran didn't answer right away. His eyes narrowed slightly. "He seems to be."
"I trust him," Mors said.
Doran nodded, reluctantly. "Very well."
"And Mellario," Mors added. "Maybe even Areo."
That gave Doran pause. He stared at Mors for a long moment.
"I understand Mellario," he said. "But Areo? Why?"
Mors's voice was sure. "Because he's loyal to her. And by extension, to you. His faith, his upbringing—it makes him incorruptible. And his strength? I've never seen anything like it. He could help train me. Sharpen the edge."
Doran nodded slowly. "All right. That makes sense. Then it's settled."
They stood there in silence, side by side, watching as clouds gathered beyond the window. The breeze picked up, cool and heavy. Thunder rumbled distantly—just enough to set the glass humming.
After a while, Doran spoke again, softer now.
"I think we should prevent any marriage alliances for you... outside of Dorne."
Mors turned slightly, surprised. "You've always favored political alliances. Why?"
Doran's gaze stayed on the horizon. "It's too dangerous. Outside our walls, no one will understand what you are. They'll try to control it. Or destroy it. Maybe the North would accept it. But the rest of the realm? They can't be trusted."
He exhaled. "Better to bind ourselves tighter to someone we can manage. The Daynes. The Yronwoods—though I don't trust them. Not fully. But the Daynes... they may be the key."
Mors considered that. Then nodded.
"I'll follow your guidance."
Doran finally smiled again. "Good. Go rest. We have hard days ahead."
Mors inclined his head and turned to leave. But as he stepped into the hall, he caught a flash of white lightning over the distant sea. The rumble followed a few heartbeats later, low and ominous.
He paused.
A storm was brewing.
Two weeks had passed.
Sunspear, though never a quiet place, had taken on a hush in the wake of Maron Martell's death. Grief moved through the halls like a cautious ghost. Guards spoke softer. Courtiers walked slower. The echo of sandals against stone seemed to linger too long.
Lewyn Martell returned at last, the banner of the Spears of the Sun rippling behind him. He rode at the head of the column—Oberyn and Manfrey flanking him, their faces carved from fire and ash. Oberyn looked ready to kill something. Manfrey looked like he already had.
A quiet funeral was held the next morning. Mors stood beside Doran and Elia as they looked down on what remained of their uncle. One arm gone. Dozens of wounds, old and new. But clutched in his dead hand—shattered glass from what must have been a Myrish noble's necklace. The pieces shimmered in the sunlight, too delicate for a battlefield.
Mors stared at them, jaw clenched. 'He took something with him, even at the end.'
Loreza did not speak during the ceremony. She stood tall, but there was a thinness to her presence. As if part of her had already departed with Maron.
That night, she retired early. Jeremy followed her, silent and steadfast.
Lewyn didn't linger.
By dawn, he was gone—riding out with an elite unit of the Spears. No farewells. No ceremony. Just steel, silence, and grim determination.
Doran had forbidden Oberyn and Manfrey from joining him.
"They're too volatile," he told Mors in the solar. "Let Lewyn scout first. Once we know where to strike—we strike hard."
Oberyn stormed out the moment he heard. Manfrey didn't speak. He only stared, jaw clenched, before turning and walking away.
Mors sighed softly. "Leave them to me. I'll try to contain their fury—at least until we can unleash it properly."
Later that afternoon, Mors found Oberyn and Manfrey pacing the practice yard like caged wolves. Rage had settled into their bones.
Without a word, he grabbed a spear and stepped into the ring.
"Both of you. Come at me."
Oberyn blinked. "Together?"
Mors just nodded.
The fight that followed was fast, brutal, and stunning. Spears blurred in the air. Sand exploded underfoot. Oberyn's speed, Manfrey's precision— both impressive, both relentless—but neither could break Mors's defense. He flowed like liquid iron, untouchable and unrelenting.
When he finally disarmed Manfrey and twisted Oberyn to the ground, even the servants watching from the corridor gasped.
Oberyn lay there, breathing hard, eyes wide. "What in the seven hells have you been eating?"
Mors offered a hand. "Discipline."
They both took it.
Now under the shade, silence fell between them. At nearly fourteen, Mors stood eye to eye with Oberyn at 5'11" (180 cm), and was already an inch taller than Manfrey, who had reached 5'10" (178 cm).
Mors broke the quiet, resting a hand on both their shoulders.
"I'm as furious as you are," he said. "I want to avenge Uncle Maron—and save or recover Aunt Mellei, whatever it takes."
He looked between them. "But we can't be divided. Not now. We need to focus. Let the anger build until we can unleash it—together."
Oberyn bristled. "We're going to skin them alive."
Manfrey didn't speak, but he nodded grimly.
Mors's voice lowered, firm and steady. "That we are. And more."
He looked toward the horizon, his words steel.
"They'll learn why Dorne is Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken."
Three days later, a letter arrived from the Hand of the King. It was wrapped in Lannister red and sealed with wax thick as blood.
Doran read it aloud in the council chamber.
"The Crown is grieved to hear of the passing of Lord Maron Martell. It acknowledges the tragic loss and recognizes the growing threat in the Stepstones. A fleet of five warships is being sent to assist in patrol and deterrence."
Silence followed.
"Five ships?" Elia muttered.
"Five," Doran confirmed, folding the parchment.
Oberyn swore. Manfrey punched the stone wall hard enough to bleed. Loreza said nothing.
Mors stood with folded arms, watching his mother. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap.
'They'll never move for us,' he thought bitterly. 'Even after all this… Dorne was still an afterthought to the rest of the realm.'
That evening, Doran called a gathering in the main solar. Loreza sat upright but pale. Jeremy stood at her back. Mellario was present, as were Elia, Oberyn, and Manfrey.
Doran looked at them all, then nodded to Mors. "They deserve to know."
Mors explained—quietly, simply. The strength, the reflexes, the healing. The projection of his aura. The recent surge. He didn't embellish.
When he finished, silence held the room.
Oberyn's brow furrowed. "Wait—you've secretly been giving us a boost while we train?"
Mors cracked a smile. "Not intentionally."
Even Loreza smiled faintly at that.
Then her expression changed. "I cannot lead like this," she said softly. "I've tried to hold myself together, but I feel the cracks. I see ghosts in the halls. Hear Maron's voice at night. I won't let my grief steer Dorne."
She turned to Doran.
"I name you my Hand. And Regent of Dorne. Until I recover fully… or choose to step down entirely—or the gods take me."
Doran's eyes widened. "Mother… are you certain?"
Loreza nodded. "More certain than I've been about anything in weeks."
The next morning, Mors found Doran in the solar, hunched over military ledgers and campaign charts.
"I want in," he said simply. "With the Spears. All of it."
Doran looked up, studying him for a long moment.
"I suppose denying you now would be pointless," he said at last. "You're ready—maybe more than most."
He sighed, setting the quill aside. "I know you haven't exactly been taking it easy… but this changes everything, Mors. You can still step back. Let us adults carry the burden."
Mors shook his head, eyes steady. "I won't change my mind."
Doran watched him a moment longer, then gave a quiet nod. "Very well. I'll approve your request. When Lewyn returns, I'll inform him."
He paused. "But one condition—Jeremy goes with you."
Mors didn't hesitate. "Done."
Three days later, Lewyn returned.
They met in Loreza's private solar. She sat on a chaise, Jeremy beside her. Doran stood near the window. Elia was there, as were Oberyn and Manfrey. Mors leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Lewyn laid out maps and parchment. "No sign of Mellei's body. But we found Myrish weapons, trade seals, and several dead pirates with noble adornments. One had a ledger. It's in High Valyrian—coded. But it links several raids to Myrish trade ports."
Doran frowned. "Not Tyrosh, then. Myr."
Lewyn nodded. "They've been funding these pirates for years."
Doran looked at Loreza.
"This is no longer just a matter of vengeance. It's a matter of kingdoms."
Mors stepped forward. "Then let the kingdoms wait. The pirates die first."
Doran's eyes gleamed. "Well said." He turned to Lewyn. "Uncle—do we know where they're based?"
"Lower Stepstones. A broken island chain. Deep harbors. Fortified."
Doran turned to Loreza.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, once—slow and deliberate.
Doran lifted his chin. "Then... we go to war."
Lewyn followed, voice like stone. "We go to war."
Oberyn's eyes burned. "We go to war!"
Manfrey's voice was quieter, but firm. "We go to war."
Beside Loreza, Elia reached for her mother's hand. She didn't speak—
but her fingers trembled.
Mors stood still, watching them all. The weight of it settled into his bones.
He exhaled, then murmured, "Then war it is."
And in the silence that followed, thunder rumbled outside the tower.
A storm was coming.
And this time, Dorne would not weather it.
It would ride it.
End of Arc I — The Making of the Spear