Lannisport — End of Tourney Feast, Evening
The great feast had begun.
Banners of crimson and gold billowed over the keep, the sound of music and laughter spilling out from the tall archways of House Lannister's hall. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh fruits, Dornish and Arbor wines, and steaming loaves. Lannisters toasted loudly. Tyrells smiled tightly. Riverlords mingled carefully. But all eyes, sooner or later, found him.
Mors Martell stood near the head table, dressed in formal Martell crimson trimmed with gold, a subtle black sun embroidered over his chest. His silver-blond hair was tied back, framing the quiet pride in his violet eyes.
Doran raised his goblet with a smile. "You've done Dorne proud."
Jeremy offered a nod of approval from across the table, quiet pride radiating from him like a father watching his son come into his own.
But it was Ashara who reached him first, practically bouncing. "You were incredible," she said, eyes gleaming. "Come. I'm claiming the first dance. You don't get to refuse me tonight."
Mors sighed—but smiled softly. "Wouldn't dream of it." He turned toward the others. "I guess my biggest match begins now."
Elia was already watching them both, her smile wide and warm. Alyssa, usually so composed, allowed herself a quiet grin, her eyes lingering on Mors a moment longer than she likely meant to.
'Even she smiled… I must really be glowing.'
As they crossed to the dance floor, a lull in the music caught the room's attention. Murmurs rose as Prince Rhaegar approached.
He came flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, moving with that practiced regal elegance of his, silver hair shimmering under torchlight. His expression was mild, polite—even gracious.
"My dear cousin Mors," Rhaegar said, extending a hand. "That was a match for the ages. I offer my congratulations—and my respect."
Mors accepted the hand. "You honor me, my prince. The match would not have been great without a great opponent."
"Perhaps." Rhaegar's smile did not reach his eyes. "You've won more than a tourney today. You've earned the admiration of many... including my father."
Arthur nodded to Ashara, then turned to Mors with a smile. "Exceptionally well done, Prince Mors. The youngest knight in the realm—and now a tourney champion. You're crafting quite the legend around yourself."
Barristan offered a simple, "Well done, Prince Mors," his tone sincere—though he kept inadvertently stealing glances at Ashara.
Rhaegar continued, eyes sweeping toward the women. "I do hope you'll visit King's Landing sometime. The court could use more honor—and charm." He turned to Elia, offering a slight bow. "You especially, my lady. I would be honored to host you."
Elia blushed deeply, her hand fluttering at her chest. "You're too kind, your grace."
Ashara offered a polite smile and subtly stepped back toward Mors, their arms brushing as she resumed her place beside him. A flicker of annoyance lingered in her eyes—she hadn't appreciated the interruption. Alyssa gave a courteous nod, her expression composed, unreadable as ever.
While exchanging pleasantries with Rhaegar, Mors kept his smile steady—but his mind was already working. 'He's trying too hard… and not just with me. He's watching them too. Especially Elia. What is it you're really after, prince?'
Before Rhaegar could say more, another Kingsguard arrived—Ser Oswell Whent, clad in white plate.
"Prince Mors," Oswell said with a bow, "His Grace requests your presence."
Mors met Rhaegar's eyes one last time. "If you'll excuse me."
"Of course," Rhaegar said smoothly, though something flickered behind the mask—something brittle. "We'll speak again… tomorrow, if you're available."
'He didn't like being interrupted.'
"I'll be sure to find you in the morning, my prince," Mors replied. Then he turned to Ashara and the others, offering a nod and a soft smile. "If you'll excuse me… we'll finish our dance when I return."
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Royal Pavilion — Minutes Later
The King's pavilion was surprisingly quiet. Only two Kingsguard stood within—Gerold Hightower and Harlan Grandison. Oswell Whent, having escorted Mors inside, took his place by the entrance. Seated between them was the King himself. Jonothor Darry had remained in King's Landing with the Queen and the newborn Viserys.
Aerys II.
Though still handsome, his once vibrant gold-silver hair now streaked with gray, his beard thin and wild. His robes shimmered in black and red, but it was the intensity of his stare that truly weighed upon Mors.
Mors dropped to one knee. "Your Grace."
Aerys raised a hand. "Rise… Prince Mors."
Mors obeyed, standing tall.
The silence stretched. The King studied him, unblinking. The fire behind him crackled. One of the guards shifted slightly.
"You truly are a prince," Aerys said at last. "Unfortunately, in the wrong kingdom."
'Who starts a conversation that way…?'
"Come. Sit… cousin."
Mors hesitated, then moved to the seat before him. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"I see so much of my uncle in you," Aerys murmured. "But there's more… Something else in your blood."
Mors remained quiet.
"If only you could be my heir… or the ruler of Dorne instead." Aerys gave a laugh—soft and strange. "Wouldn't that unsettle a few peacocks in my court? Hmph. Does Tywin truly believe I don't see what he's trying to do?"
'I have no idea where this is going. What is he talking about?'
"I wanted to congratulate you. You've done something I've longed to do—put that pompous boy of mine in his place. And no one else was worthy. Or… permitted."
Mors didn't respond.
"Just don't get any ideas," Aerys said, suddenly sharp.
Mors bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Your Grace. I know my station."
Aerys smiled then. Genuinely, even. "Good. Good…"
He leaned forward, voice lower. "If I had a daughter, I'd betroth her to you without hesitation. But in lieu of that…" He waved a hand. "I offer you a boon. One request. Name it, and if I find it worthy, it shall be granted."
Mors blinked. "That is… a great honor, Your Grace. I won't refuse—but I ask time to consider it. I do not yet know what I lack."
Aerys laughed, delighted. "Good! That means you're being treated well—even in that second-rate kingdom of yours."
Mors didn't take the bait.
"Don't keep me waiting," Aerys said, his grin sharpening. "A month. That's it. I've been known to forget things—and people."
He waved a hand lazily. "Dismissed."
Mors stood, bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace."
As he turned to leave, he felt the King's eyes on his back until the tent flap closed behind him.
'That… was not what I expected.'
He looked back at the now closed tent flap as if questioning what just happened.
'Is this a good thing or a bad thing?'
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When Mors returned, the feast was still in full swing. Laughter echoed beneath the pavilion's silken canopy, mingling with the rhythm of dancing feet and the clink of goblets. Toward the northern contingent, a small brawl had broken out—already being subdued by guards and drowned in drunken apologies.
He made his way back to the table, where Ashara spotted him almost instantly.
"You're late," she said, offering her hand.
He took it with a smile. "Had to deal with a king."
She rolled her eyes. "Excuses."
They danced. And kept dancing.
Whatever awkwardness had hung earlier vanished in the rhythm between them. Mors noticed Elia dancing as well—mostly with Rhaegar. Ashara had apparently declined the prince's offer earlier, citing a need for a personal break. She never circled back.
Instead, she stayed with Mors, spinning through song after song until the night began to blur around the edges. Still, she insisted he dance with Alyssa a few times—despite the latter's hesitation.
When the celebration finally wound down, Mors stepped out into the cooler air with Elia, Ashara, Doran, and the others. Just past the edge of the pavilion, Arthur Dayne stood waiting, looking uncertain.
"Ser Arthur," Mors greeted.
"Prince Mors," Arthur returned with a slow nod.
Mors glanced at his siblings and friends, gesturing for them to continue ahead. Jeremy lingered behind with Tahlor, Idrin, and two other members of his personal guard, staying close.
Mors approached. "Is something the matter?"
Arthur hesitated, then spoke. "I… I'm not sure."
Mors frowned. "What do you mean?"
Arthur looked away for a moment before answering. "I thought serving the prince would be my greatest honor. And in many ways, it still is. But... something feels off."
He paused, then added, "At first, I dismissed it as eccentricity. Royal quirks. But tonight, the way he looked at my sister… at your sister… others too."
Mors's expression darkened.
Arthur's voice was quiet now. "I took a vow. I intend to keep it. But… just in case, take care of Ashara. Of Elia. Of those close to you. That's all."
He turned and walked off into the shadows of the camp.
Mors watched him go, a growing weight settling in his chest.
'So I'm not the only one who felt it.'
He let out a quiet sigh and rejoined his guards—already thinking ahead.
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As Mors approached his tent, he found Ser Qerrin Toland—one of his personal guards—waiting outside. The knight looked worse for wear, tunic dusty and a fresh black eye darkening one side of his face. He had finally returned from the covert mission Mors had assigned him and four others five days prior.
Mors raised a brow. "Qerrin. Good to see you back… though it seems things didn't go quite to plan. Come in and report."
Qerrin saluted crisply. "My prince." He followed Mors inside the tent.
"The mission was successful. We made contact with the target three days ago. He was exactly as vile as the reports claimed—had just murdered a lowborn husband and…" Qerrin hesitated, his jaw tightening, "...and brutalized the wife until she was a dead. We arrived too late. The room was awash in blood—it was beyond savage."
He paused before continuing. "Also, he was much bigger and stronger than we imagined. Easily six-five, maybe six-six. Had to weigh over three hundred pounds—and he couldn't be more than eleven or twelve. Daro took a bad hit during the fight. We had to delay our return while he recovered, but he's resting now. Stable."
Qerrin finished, his voice still edged with anger. Mors nodded once, absorbing the report before asking, "How did you make it look?"
"We staged it so it looked like the husband, with his last breath, drove a blade through the bastard's heart from behind. In his drunken stupor, he knocked over a candle into the spilled ale, setting himself, the bodies, and the house ablaze. We ensured there were no witnesses."
Mors said nothing for a long moment. Then he exhaled, weary. "You did well, Qerrin. And thank you. Make sure Daro gets enough rest"
Qerrin bowed his head. "It is my duty, my prince. I'll take my leave."
Mors watched him go. Then, alone in the quiet, he sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, hands to his brow.
"Goodbye… Gregor Clegane," he murmured.
Then he rose, changed into his sleeping clothes, and lay down for the night.
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Sunspear – The Dream
A massive dragon loomed before him. Its jaws opened wide—and fire poured forth, not in a steady torrent, but in a dance.
No… not just fire. Shapes moved within the flames—shifting, writhing—glimpses of something deeper. Something real.
Through the fire, Mors saw.
Planky Town was burning.
The market piers crackled in infernos. Ships were ablaze, their sails flapping like torn wings as panicked citizens screamed and scattered along the muddy streets. Bells tolled in desperation—but no help came. Only death.
From the smoke emerged a monster.
A giant of a man—nearly eight feet tall—led the charge. His bare chest was smeared with soot and blood, his eyes as hard as black iron. A cruel, jagged axe rested across his shoulder, and at his waist hung a small sword that, on his massive frame, seemed no larger than a dagger. Behind him, pirates surged forward, howling in tongues Mors couldn't understand, crashing into the defenders like a tide of steel and fire.
Sunspear's gates groaned open—not by the defenders' will, but by the hand of someone within. A traitor. The hinges screamed as the gap widened, and the enemy surged through like a breaking wave. Red walls fell to breach, defenders cut down as flames licked the sandstone. Steel clanged in the palace halls, shadows dancing with the fire.
And then—
Loreza.
Her golden robes were torn, her face bloodied, but she stood defiant in the Tower of the Sun's outer corridor, her sword arm trembling but raised. The pirates demanded surrender.
She spat.
Behind her, Areo Hotah roared as his axe cleaved two intruders in half. His face was twisted in fury—but there were too many. He fought like a bear cornered in fire, but they were swarming him.
Through smoke and chaos, Mellario appeared—staggering, her head bleeding, barely conscious. She was dragged back by a brute, her cries muffled. Her feet scraped against the stone as she reached toward Loreza—but her eyes rolled back.
"No!" Loreza lunged—only to be struck in the ribs by a mace, her sword clattering to the ground. She dropped to one knee, blood gushing from her side.
Still, she raised her eyes.
And through the flames—she looked straight at Mors.
One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot but full of fire.
Her arm trembled upward, barely rising. Her voice cracked, broken and hoarse.
"…Mors."
Everything froze.
The flames surged, engulfing the vision in gold and red. Her image dissolved in fire.
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Lannisport – Mors's Tent
Mors gasped—violently.
He jolted upright in his bed, drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving like he'd run leagues. His blanket was soaked, his tunic clung to him, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.
He clutched his ribs, trying to steady his breath.
The fire was out.
The room was dark.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"What in the seven hells was that?" he whispered aloud, voice raw.
But he already knew.
It hadn't been a nightmare. Not truly.
It was something else. Something older.
A vision through fire.
A dragondream.