Sunfort, The Stepstones — Late 277 AC
The Dream
A massive dragon loomed before him, violet eyes the size of his body locking onto his own. Its colossal jaws opened, and black fire poured forth—an all-consuming wave that moved with impossible slowness, twisting in a strange, hypnotic dance. Within the flames, shapes began to take form.
More fire.
Everything was burning. The Free Cities. Westeros. Unending flames spreading farther and farther.
He saw men writhing as the flames consumed them.
A pedestal holding the sun aloft crumbled.
Glass melting into rivers.
Flowers shriveling to ash.
Lions prowling through smoke.
Griffins rending a falcons from the sky.
Wolves, wounded and burning, howling as they fell.
Stags licking their wounds in the embers.
Trouts gasping on a cracked, dry lakebed.
A serpent roaring like a dragon, choking as it tried to swallow a desert rose.
A kraken rising from the depths, only its vast eyes breaking the surface—hunger burning in them as they searched for prey.
And over it all, a sandstorm howled across the now desert, scouring the last traces of life.
Then, suddenly, everything changed.
A bone-deep deathly cold spread outward, freezing all it touched. Wolves tried to flee south but froze mid-step. Falcons dropped lifeless from the sky. The trouts froze beneath the ice. The lions, gaunt and starving, collapsed. The kraken sank beneath the waves. Flowers turned brittle and shattered.
And then—the Sun.
Brilliant. Blazing.
It rose strong against the cold, driving back death with its light, bringing balance to the world.
But just as warmth returned, a three-eyed raven appeared out of nowhere—
And the dream ended.
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Mors woke in shock, breath ragged, skin slick with cold sweat, his long hair plastered to his face and chest.
"Dragondream…" he murmured. "But this one… was so confusing. What was it trying to say?"
A soft movement beside him pulled his attention. He turned his head to find beauty, desire, and danger bound in one form—temptation and grace intertwined—stirring with lazy confidence beneath the sheets. Ashara rolled over in search of the human pillow she'd lost, her black hair spilling around her shoulders, framing her face. Her bare, voluptuous body—his alone to behold—glowed faintly in the first light of dawn. His Queen of Love and Beauty. His soon-to-be wife, Ashara Dayne.
This closeness was new, born after the latest assassination attempt. She had taken the initiative, sweeping into his chambers with a smirk and a challenge.
"Since I can't wait for a blockhead like you to make the first move, as a proper Dornish lady, I'll take care of it myself."
A faint smile touched his lips at the memory. 'I've found new applications for my aura…'
Careful not to wake her, Mors rose from the bed, poured a cup of water, and stepped out onto the patio overlooking Sunfort. He stared out at the sea and the blush of dawn on the horizon, brow furrowed.
"The dream was confusing," he muttered. "But does it mean events are about to begin?"
His chest rose and fell with a heavy breath as he gripped the railing, violet eyes fixed on the breaking light.
"So much to do. So little help. So little time."
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Sunfort, The Stepstones — Small Council Solar
Later that afternoon
Jeremy rose. "Initial construction of the defense structures is complete. We can now shift focus to finalizing the pending city projects. That's my last update."
At the head of the table, Mors nodded and turned to Syenna, his spymaster of internal affairs.
Syenna bowed. "My prince, more people continue to arrive from the mainland to join us—but just as many spies. We've done well vetting them so far, but relying on your abilities is not a sustainable path. We need to expand our network."
Mors nodded gravely. Ashara, seated beside him, watched with quiet worry. He had been spreading himself thin with a newfound urgency since the assassination attempt, and today he looked especially on edge. He'd been working with Syenna to vet arrivals through his aura, but there was only so much one man could do.
"Yes," Mors agreed, his voice low. "We need other angles. Reach out to Madam Qho—her courtesan house can loosen more tongues than any rack of questions. Offer her the chance to open a new branch under our protection here, with profit sharing if she agrees."
Syenna dipped her head. "I'll see it done."
Mors shifted his gaze. "The good news is that my personal efforts have quickened our growth—projects are moving faster with the influx of people. Ser Daven, Ser Qerrin… your updates?"
The two men exchanged a glance, with them quietly agreeing to Daven starting. Daven inclined his head and began. "As you say, my prince. With the added help, we've advanced the timeline for retrofitting the captured ships. By week's end, each command outpost of the Stepstones will have a total of three heavy warships, six intermediate galleys, and twenty-one light patrol ships. The men are prepared to take their stations." He looked to Qerrin.
Qerrin nodded firmly. "That's correct. The crews are trained and drilling with their captains. We should have at least three hundred fifty men ready to man the ships, plus one hundred fifty for garrison at each outpost. The population is still growing, but this force should be enough to deter any hostile move—for now."
Mors smiled. "Good work—all of you. This is critical for our growth. Between the three command islands, we now have ninety ships and fifteen hundred men, and with Sunfort's garrison and fleet, another fifteen hundred. That gives us over two thousand ready for war, one thousand in garrison, and one hundred eighty ships."
He paused, thoughtful. "A strong beginning—but not enough. By next year's end, I want five thousand men in the field, with two thousand for garrison."
His gaze fixed on Daven. "That means no fewer than twenty-five heavy warships, fifty intermediate galleys, and one hundred fifty light patrol ships. And this time, they must be properly manned—not the bare-bones crews we're using now. With the influx of people, this is within reach. Understood?"
Both knights stood as one and nodded resolutely. "It will be done, my prince."
Mors gave them a satisfied look before turning to his steward, the ever money-loving Naerya.
Naerya bowed, a strange, greedy laugh slipping out. "My prince… I've never seen so much gold. Hihihi." Mors could have sworn he saw dragon-shaped coins reflected in her eyes. Maybe he really did need more rest.
"Over three thousand dragons last month alone, and still growing. The tolls have been immensely successful. They don't yet cover our full expenditures, but for a realm of our size, it is extraordinary—very extraordinary. And when Dorne begins their special project next year, all that trade will pass by us. Revenues will increase tremendously. My only fear is… they will come for my money—erm, our money. Such wealth will draw attention."
Mors's smile twitched before hardening. "Good. As for attention…" his tone sharpened. "That is why we need strength. So none dare covet what we've built without knowing they'll lose an arm—or a leg—for trying. If anything seems amiss, you tell me at once. I will tolerate no embezzlement, no corruption—not even among this table. That is why I pay you so well." His violet eyes fixed pointedly on Naerya. She was loyal and capable, but her obsession with coin always made him wary.
"Yes, my prince," the council said in unison—while Naerya nodded so quickly and eagerly she looked like a bobblehead.
Mors sighed, rubbing at his brow before shifting his gaze to the next in line—his ever-loyal servant. "Nael, you're up."
Nael 'One-Arm,' master of laws, inclined his head.
"No unrest to report, my prince. There is enough work to keep everyone occupied, and the leisure districts are developing well. People have begun moving to the unoccupied islands for development, though only about half are settled as of now." He paused, letting the numbers sink in before continuing.
"In addition, I received a note from Arodan in Myr. The conflict between the glass guilds has erupted into open combat. Oberyn has been mingling with the merchant elite and uncovered that slaves were used to assassinate the Blackflame Syndicate's leadership. He's not entirely convinced the guilds orchestrated it themselves, though he has not yet discovered who lit the fuse—but this is the perfect moment to strike a decisive blow."
Mors's smile curved into cruelty. "Good… very good." He leaned back, considering, then gave a firm nod. "Send Idrin Qho with an elite group. One of his lieutenants can hold Torturer's Deep in his stead. His… talents will cause the sort of trouble we need."
Then, without warning, his expression darkened. His thoughts snapped back to his Dragondream—the image of glass melting. His eyes widened.
'Idrin Qho… his obsession with fire, with burning everything to ash…could this be related?'
Nael frowned. "My prince?"
Ashara's soft voice followed. "Mors?"
He shook it off. "I just remembered something. Was there more, Nael?"
Nael shook his head. "That is all."
Maester Orwyn cleared his throat. "Only some miscellaneous news, but important given the parties involved."
Mors, who had been about to rise, settled back. "Go on, Maester."
"Word from King's Landing: King Aerys is seeking a highborn Valyrian bride for Prince Rhaegar. Lord Steffon Baratheon has been tasked with traveling to Volantis to find one. It is believed that once he succeeds, he will be made Hand of the King."
Mors's lips curled into a smile, violet eyes glittering. "Good. I hope Lord Steffon finds something suitable for my dear cousin Rhaegar."
He looked around the table once more. "Thank you, all of you. Dismissed."
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Sunfort Courtyard — That Evening
Mors and Ashara sat together, sipping vintage Arbor Red, which had quickly become Mors's favorite wine. Nearby stood Morica, his loyal maid who had accompanied him to Sunfort and now attended to Ashara with quiet diligence.
"Thank you, Morica," Mors said after a moment. "That will be all."
"It is my pleasure to serve, my prince," she replied with a graceful bow before departing.
When Mors turned back, his expression tightened. Ashara was twirling the Valyrian dagger in her hands as though it were a child's toy.
"Ashara…" he sighed. "That's not a toy. You could cut yourself easily."
Her smile was radiant, mischievous. "Of course. That's why it's so much fun to play with." She spun it once more with infuriating ease before catching it by the hilt. "I know you want me to keep it, but wouldn't it be safer with you? A weapon like this is better as a backup if you're in danger. And you see how dangerous it is with me."
Mors rubbed his brow. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you? Hoping I'll take it back." His voice carried exasperation, though a smile tugged faintly at his lips.
Ashara feigned innocence. "Whatever do you mean?" Then, with deliberate drama, she stabbed the blade into the table before them. "So sharp. Valyrian steel never ceases to amaze me. If we had their formula, we'd be unstoppable."
Mors nodded slowly. "Perhaps. A sword is only as good as its wielder, but yes… it gives an unfair advantage to those who hold one."
Ashara hummed, eyes lingering on the dagger. "That said, I still don't understand the name. Why call it Crocea? It sounds so strange—I can't figure out its origin."
Mors's lips curved. "Just call it… inspiration. I thought it fit well enough with my name."
Ashara tilted her head. "Mors's Crocea? I still don't get it." She shrugged, then leaned forward, studying him. "Anyway—you've been tense all day. More than usual. What's wrong?"
Mors turned somber, silent for a moment before speaking. "I… had another Dragondream this morning."
Ashara's violet eyes widened. She immediately reached across the table, taking his hands in hers. "Oh, Mors. Are you all right? Is something going to happen?"
His smile was faint, touched with affection. She hadn't questioned him, hadn't doubted—it was enough for her to believe. "I'm not sure," he admitted with a sigh. "This one was confusing, less clear than before. But it felt like a warning… as if we're stepping into a time of unrest—one that will only grow."
Ashara's worry deepened as she squeezed his hands tighter. For a time, they simply sat like that, the quiet of the courtyard wrapping around them.
The silence was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. Jeremy came into view with Maester Orwyn trailing behind. Jeremy's expression was grave, etched with worry, while Orwyn's face remained stoic though his eyes betrayed sorrow.
A bad premonition struck Mors. He stood even before Jeremy spoke.
"My prince… Mors…" Jeremy struggled, his voice breaking. "Princess Loreza collapsed. She's fallen into a coma… she may not survive."
The words struck like a hammer. Mors staggered, breath catching, as though one of the pillars of his life had cracked beneath him.
"No…" Ashara whispered, her own eyes wide with sadness. "Mors…" She rose quickly, wrapping her arms around Mors as if to steady him.
Mors's arms tightened around Ashara, but his violet eyes burned past her shoulder. He had seen fire, he had seen ice… and now one of his pillars was falling.
'A pedestal holding the sun aloft… crumbling, just like the dream. The storm was closer than I feared.' He thought grimly, sorrow pressing in as his mind turned to Loreza.