Tower of the Sun, Sunspear, — Early 278 AC
The crypts beneath the Tower of the Sun were cool and heavy with silence, the air thick with the weight of centuries. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows across carved stone walls, where sun-and-spear motifs watched like silent sentinels over the resting princes and princesses of Dorne.
A tall figure, around 6'3" (191 cm), stood solemnly before a coffin draped in Martell colors. Mors was dressed in dark ceremonial garb, his long hair unbound and veiling much of his face. One hand pressed against the coffin's lid, his head bowed, as though by sheer will he could keep her with him a moment longer.
Behind him, the sound of muffled sobs broke the stillness. Elia wept openly, her grief unrestrained, while Mellario, Ashara, and Alyssa tried in vain to console her. At the entrance, Doran, Oberyn, and Manfrey spoke in low voices, their words hushed and heavy. Ser Lewyn and Ser Jeremy stood near the bier in silence, their faces carved with quiet devastation.
Princess Loreza Martell lay within—she had never woken from her coma, succumbing to eternal rest three days prior. A funeral had already been held in the Old Palace, a solemn ceremony where all who wished could pay their respects. Now, she would be placed among her ancestors, in the Martell crypts beneath the Tower of the Sun.
As Mors's thoughts lingered on his mother, the frailty of life—and his own limitations—pressed hard upon him. For all his gifts, his strength, his aura, there were battles he could never win. He could not shield his mother from death, nor forever protect those he loved. That truth he had at last, solemnly, accepted.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His voice was little more than a whisper, yet it carried through the crypt like a vow.
"Goodbye, Mother…"
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The last two months had been heavy with grief. Loreza's decline and her eventual death weighed heavily on all who had loved her. Though expected by then, her passing struck no less a devastating blow. Elia had taken it especially hard; she had been scheduled to spend time in Oldtown but canceled her plans to remain by her mother's side.
Contingents from every major Dornish house attended the funeral, joined by envoys from beyond Dorne. Oldtown sent its own representatives, led by Baelor Hightower. When his gaze fell on Mors, there had been something pitying in it—though Mors neither understood nor cared to interpret it in that moment. What mattered more was that Baelor seemed to get along well with Elia, which gave him some measure of peace. Even Oberyn, despite his reluctance, appeared to tolerate Baelor's presence.
Oberyn himself had arrived a month prior and had rarely left Loreza's side until the end. His usual fire was muted, replaced by a quiet grief that seemed to hang over him still.
House Yronwood was represented by its lord, Ormund—his demeanor brimming with restrained hostility. Mors had noted the man's temper simmering beneath the surface but, wisely, Ormund kept himself in check. It was better for his health that way.
Beyond Dorne, darker tidings had shaken the realm. A month ago, Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and his wife Lady Cassana Estermont, drowned when their ship, having crossed the Stepstones, was attacked by pirates just before it could enter Shipbreaker Bay. Their deaths sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms, sparking immediate changes in King's Landing.
For reasons known only to his fractured mind, King Aerys became convinced that his Hand, Tywin Lannister, was to blame for the death of his good friend and cousin. The hostility between the two men escalated sharply; Aerys now refused to be in the same room with Tywin without his full Kingsguard present. In a further break with tradition, he dismissed his Master of Whisperers and replaced him with a eunuch from Essos named Varys to the role—whose sudden rise stunned the court.
Yes… that Varys.
Mors wasn't sure what to make of him. A man who whispered for Robert while secretly backing the Targaryens—playing both sides. The trouble was, he didn't know enough, and his memories were limited. He'd need to test the eunuch himself, to see if he was an ally… or a threat.
Not long after, a raven arrived from King's Landing, carrying a royal command. As soon as the funeral and Doran's inauguration were concluded, Mors was to travel north to the capital.
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Old Palace of Sunspear — Two Days Later
Beneath the great domed roof of the Old Palace, the lords of Dorne gathered in solemn rows. Shafts of colored light streamed down from high windows, falling across banners of the sun-and-spear hung along the walls.
Doran Martell walked slowly to the dais, flanked by Elia and Oberyn, with Prince Lewyn Martell and the Spears of the Sun close at his back. His tread was steady, his face calm, but there was a weight in the hall—every step marked the passing of the old order and the birth of a new one.
From the dais, the Herald of Dorne raised his voice, clear and ceremonial. He recited the lineage of House Nymeros Martell, naming princesses and princes long past, until his words came to the present:
"By right of blood, by right of succession, we proclaim Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, and Shield of his People."
The lords came forward in turn. One by one, each knelt, placing hand to heart and swearing loyalty. Their voices echoed, weaving a chain of oaths across the chamber.
Above them, the great banner of the sun-and-spear was unfurled anew over the Tower of the Sun. Nymeria's Sunspear, the ancient relic, was brought forth and placed into Doran's hands. At last, a cup of deep red Dornish wine was passed among the bannermen, sealing unity with the taste of shared blood and bond.
The formalities ended in a closing feast. Long tables groaned beneath platters of spiced lamb, roasted fowl, and bowls of olives and dates. The music of lutes and drums filled the air, though the mood remained tempered with the shadow of recent loss.
It was then that Lord Ormund Yronwood chose his moment.
He rose with a company at his back—his own men and, notably, Lord Edmund Wyl, father of Ser Karyl Wyl, whose wife Sarella Yronwood was mother to Oberyn's bastard. Striding into the center of the hall, he called for attention.
"Congratulations on ascending the throne as Prince of Dorne, Prince Doran. Now that pleasantries are done…" His voice carried a mocking edge. "I cannot help but notice this poisonous snake—this 'Red Viper'—among us. It seems he has found respite from raping defenseless maidens to attend. All the better! Now that Oberyn is here, we demand reparation! Surely such an act would show us how fair our new Prince is. Wouldn't everyone agree?"
The chamber froze. No lord answered. Only Ormund's own contingent clapped and shouted, but their voices rang hollow in the silence.
Doran did not stir. He sat perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on Ormund. The quiet stretched until even the loudest of Ormund's men shifted uneasily, the weight of the Prince's unblinking stare pressing on them.
Mors smirked from his place. This was the Doran he knew—outwardly soft, yet with patience sharp enough to let a man boil in his own stew before he realized it. Even Mellario gave a small approving nod.
At last, Doran spoke, his voice so soft it carried more menace than a shout.
"…Is that so? Then tell me, Lord Ormund—what would you have me, the Prince of Dorne, do for you, one of my vassals?"
Ormund recovered his bluster, sneering toward Oberyn. "Simple, my prince. Ideally, Oberyn's head. But I understand—such precious blood cannot be spilled. So…" he hesitated, then hardened his tone. "So let us instead have your daughter as a ward. Consider tying our houses together. The blood of Nymeria and the blood of the Bloodroyal, joined—what could strengthen Dorne more?"
Mellario's eyes flared with fury, and it was only Doran's steady hand on hers that kept her seated. Mors, attuned to emotion, felt a killing intent radiate from his brother so strong it seemed to take form.
Oberyn surged to his feet. "I'll kill that smug bastard—"
Mors's hand shot out, gripping his shoulder. "Oberyn—leave it. Doran has this."
Manfrey, beside them, stared at Doran, eyes widening as he sensed it too. His brother's presence had changed—more solid, more commanding.
Doran studied Ormund, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "So… let me be clear. You demand my brother's head. Failing that, you demand… my daughter?"
Ormund faltered, glancing back at his supporters, then returned a nod. "Yes. That would settle all matters —for the good of the realm."
Slowly, Doran rose. He pressed Mellario's shoulder once more in quiet reassurance, then faced Ormund directly.
"Very well. You have been heard. I will consider your… proposal." His voice never rose, but the chill of it silenced the hall. "You are right—some things must be sacrificed for the strength of Dorne… 'for the good of the realm.'" A pause, then his eyes hardened. "You are dismissed. Return to your territories. You will have my decision… in due time."
Ormund and his followers hesitated, wrong-footed by the dismissal, but dared not press further. They withdrew, murmuring uneasily.
Mors leaned toward Oberyn, his lips curving in a faint smirk. "This farce with Yronwood is ending soon."
Oberyn's eyes glimmered strangely as he looked back at Doran. "I've never seen brother like this."
Manfrey nodded. "His whole aura feels… heavier. More imposing."
Mors inclined his head. "He must be. He's not just a prince of Dorne now—he is the Prince of Dorne. And these fools thought to undermine him on his first day? They are no threat to us. Not anymore."
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Sunfort — One Week Later
As Mors, Ashara, Jeremy, Qerrin, and his men returned to Sunfort after an emotional month away, the atmosphere felt… off. Guards shifted uneasily, uncertain how to greet them. At the gates, Nael and Maester Orwyn waited, exchanging nervous glances.
Mors frowned. "Nael. Orwyn. What's going on? Did something happen while we were gone? Everyone looks like they've seen a ghost."
The two hesitated until Orwyn sighed, drawing the short straw. "My prince… we've had a visitor. A unique one. She arrived three days ago asking for you specifically. Best… best you see for yourself." With that, he pushed the doors open.
Inside the throne hall, a woman skipped barefoot in wide circles, humming and singing to herself. Her sea-green gown of soft silk shimmered in the torchlight, runes embroidered faintly along its folds. Despite her beauty, her silver-blond hair spilled down her back in tangled waves, utterly unkempt, as if she didn't have a care in the world.
"Here comes the Sun of Dorne… hum hum…
Bright as the day he was born… hum hum…
Here comes the Dragon of the South… hum hum…
To hunt you down and close your mouth… hum hum…
Cold, cold, fase away… hum hum…
His light will rule the day… hum hum…"
Mors, Ashara, Jeremy, and Qerrin froze in place. They looked at each other, then at Nael and Orwyn as if demanding answers. The two men only grimaced helplessly.
Suddenly, the woman stopped. Her eyes—wide and luminous as beacons—locked onto Mors. She lifted her arms like a child spotting a long-lost friend and ran forward in a strange, loping gait.
"The Sun! I see you! You're even warmer now!"
Mors blinked, startled. "Wait… aren't you the mad mai—erm… Lady Hightower?" He couldn't recall her name, but her presence was unforgettable.
She clapped her hands, delighted. "Yes! Yes, that's me—the Mad Maid! Oh, I'm so glad you remember me."
Ashara's brows arched. "The… Mad Maid?"
"Yes! Yes, that's me!" Malora nodded furiously. Then she gasped, spinning toward Ashara with sudden intensity. "You're so pretty. Perfect! You'll be my sister now."
Mors, trying to keep control, stepped in. "Forgive me, my lady. I do remember you from years ago. Your name was…"
"The Mad Maid is fine," she interrupted breezily. "But if you like, you may call me Malora. Malora Hightower."
Ashara's voice was cautious. "Lady Hightower… did something happen to your shoes?"
Malora smiled dreamily. "Shoes block the ground. The ground speaks. With bare feet I see more clearly." She said it as though it were the most obvious truth in the world.
Mors pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps we should take this to my solar."
Behind Malora, her two Hightower guards and weary maids looked utterly exhausted, their faces blank with despair.
"Yes, yes," Malora chirped. "Show me all the places—I'll need to know where I'm living now."
Mors froze. "…Living? What do you mean by that?"
Her eyes widened, as if she had just remembered something crucial. She darted to her maids, snatching a sealed letter and an ornate long box. Bounding back, she thrust the parchment at Mors. "Here! Almost forgot. It explains everything. Open it, quick!"
He broke the Hightower seal and read. His face went deadpan. He looked up at Malora with pure exasperation.
Ashara leaned over to read as well. Her jaw dropped.
The "contract" was written in childish handwriting:
"Malora Hightower, known as the Mad Maid, belongs to Mors Martell, known as the Sun of Dorne."
Signed—Lord Leyton Hightower.
Actually signed. By the Lord himself.
Mors thought in exasperation, 'Malora clearly wrote this… but the signature is real.'
Ashara blinked, utterly bewildered. Jeremy muttered under his breath, "Seven save us…"
Malora only beamed. "Hihi… Daddy approved! And I brought a gift!"
She opened the ornate box and drew forth a long, twisted shard of obsidian—so black it seemed to drink the light, its edges razor-sharp, humming faintly with unseen power.
Mors's words caught in his throat. The thing called to him.
"Go on," Malora whispered eagerly. "Touch it."
He glanced at her manic smile, then at Ashara's and Jeremy's worried faces. After a heartbeat's hesitation, he reached out. His fingers brushed the artifact—
—and the vision surged through him.
After a moment, He tore his hand back, chest heaving, violet eyes blazing. He looked at Malora, breathless with dawning understanding.
"I… I see you," he rasped.
Malora clapped her hands together like an overjoyed child, spinning once in delight. "Yes! Yes, you do! Just like me!"