"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—
…
The instant his fingers brushed the twisted black glass, the world shifted.
It was as though his sight were wrenched from his body and flung skyward. The chamber, Sunfort, the Stepstones—all dropped away beneath him. He soared higher, faster, until the world below stretched like a vast painted map.
He gasped, nearly losing balance, but the vision steadied. He could see everything. The sea, the islands, Sunspear gleaming in the distance. He willed it, and the world answered: the view pulled closer, down to Bloodstone's harbor where ships bobbed at anchor, guards patrolling the docks. Another thought, and the vision shifted—zooming outward across the Narrow Sea toward Myr, where smoke still curled above the rooftops from the guild war Arodan had written about.
His heart pounded. It was as if he held the realm in the palm of his hand.
Then, faintly, another presence brushed against his vision. A voice sang through the dark like a ripple across water:
"See? Isn't it beautiful?"
Malora's.
At that instant, Mors tore his hand back, chest heaving, violet eyes blazing. He stared 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!"
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Sunfort, The Stepstones — Early 278 AC
A day had passed since the startling events with the glass candle, and Mors was still unsettled by its power. Its abilities had surprised him deeply, proving that there was far more truth to the old tales than he once believed—stories of Rhoynar water magic, Asshai shadowbinders, and other strange arts no longer seemed like mere legends.
He had explained what he'd seen to Jeremy and Ashara, but when they tried the candle themselves, nothing happened. For now, it seemed that only he and Malora could wield it. That revelation alone left him wary. Perhaps there was more substance to Malora's mad ramblings than he had ever imagined. Even her father, Lord Leyton Hightower, appeared to be a secret adherent of such mysteries. She had even produced another letter from him, urging Mors to "take care" of his daughter and promising Oldtown's support—though that alliance was to remain hidden for now. Mors knew he would need to visit in time, to pry more answers from the so-called Mad Lord.
Recognizing Malora as the only other who could command the glass candle, Mors understood the strategic importance of keeping her close. The problem, however, was her eccentricities. He would never forget Ashara's look of utter disbelief when Malora knelt before him and offered herself as a stool for his legs. Ashara had taken her aside afterward, speaking with her at length, and somehow they had reached an "understanding." Or so it seemed. Mors could only hope.
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Sunfort, Lord's Solar — The Next Afternoon
After finishing the day's duties, Mors spent hours attuning to the glass candle, working to understand its intricacies. Ashara and Malora remained with him, watching quietly as the black shard pulsed faintly in the chamber's dim light.
"…Two islands out from Bloodstone," Mors murmured. "A hidden storehouse—pirates still in hiding. I'll have Bedwyck deal with that."
Malora clapped like a delighted child. "Oh, oh! Did you find treasure? Treasures are the best to find!"
Mors gave a stiff smile. "Yes… I suppose you could call it treasure."
Her eyes glittered strangely. "You should look closer to Myr. I feel like there's a big treasure there… for you."
His focus broke. He turned sharply, surprised. "For me?"
"Yes! Yes, yes!" she said with bright certainty.
"…Do you know what it is?"
Malora shook her head cheerfully. "None! No idea!"
Mors pressed his brow with a hand, catching Ashara's twitching smile from the corner of his eye. "…All right," he muttered, and bent back over the glass.
The world shifted under his will. His vision soared northeast, sweeping over seas and islands until it came to a prosperous city, its harbor marked by a tall tower. 'Tyrosh… keep going.' He pressed further, strain edging at his temples.
Another city emerged, grand yet scarred—fires burning, armed men clashing in the streets, civilians scarce. The tension was visible even from above.
'The lighthouse. The temples of R'hllor. The chaos. This must be Myr.'
He swept lower, pushing the vision, searching for Idrin or his men. He went from place to place in seconds, searching. Suddenly another fire burst alight. Men in black slipped from the smoke, darting through alleys, changing clothes as they fled, until they vanished into a run-down manor. There, in its neglected courtyard, they met with someone waiting.
Mors gasped sharply, all fatigue forgotten. His vision sharpened, forcing closer, until he saw her clearly.
Older. Scarred. Hardened. But unmistakable.
"Aunt… Mellei," he whispered, disbelieving.
His voice cracked. "That's impossible. She died. They killed her—we never found a body—he lied. He LIED!" His words rose, ending in fury. "We left her!"
He tore his hand away from the glass, stumbling back as though burned. Rising to his feet, he began pacing the chamber, fists clenched tight. 'But I hadn't sensed a lie… unless, in his mind, she was already as good as dead…'
Ashara rose at once, hurrying to embrace him. "Mors—what is it?"
He stilled, forcing his aura to numb the splitting headache, sharpening his thoughts until everything aligned. His eyes found hers, pain written in them, but his voice came steady. "Ashara… Aunt Mellei is alive."
Her face blanked, then she drew a sharp breath. "Mellei Uller—your aunt. Manfrey's mother?"
He nodded, though disbelief still clung to him.
Malora squealed, spinning in delighted circles. "The treasure was bigger than I thought! Morsy, Morsy—you have to go save her quickly!"
Mors blinked, thrown completely off. "…Morsy?"
Ashara burst into laughter, unable to contain it. "Yes, Morsy. Gods, that's perfect." Then, more seriously, her eyes shone with genuine joy for him. "We can't waste time—we must save her."
Mors's jaw unclenched. He kissed her gently, then looked to Malora with a nod. "I need to ready the men. We'll also have to inform Doran—and Manfrey."
Ashara squeezed his hand. "Leave that to me. Go—prepare."
Mors allowed himself a faint smile at her resolve, then turned and strode from the chamber, his purpose sharpened like a blade.
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Later That Evening
The docks bustled under torchlight as twenty men in dark, light armor prepared the Eclipse for departure. Ser Qerrin Toland oversaw the loading, while Jorran "the One-Eyed," Cale "the Brute," and Daro "the Swift" checked their gear. Veterans Ser Daven Quarr and Ser Jeremy Norridge stood apart—Jeremy especially had refused to be left behind once he learned who they were rescuing.
"Finally," Jorran muttered with a grin, adjusting his sword belt. "This is the kind of mission I live for. Been too long since the last one."
Syenna, arms folded, gave a theatrical sigh. "Unfortunately, Prince Mors insists I stay behind and keep order while he's away. Seems a girl's not allowed any fun."
Cale smirked, leaning on his spear. "Do you think Lady Mellei is beautiful? I would—"
Daro's fist slammed into his shoulder before he could finish. "Don't," he hissed, eyes darting around.
Syenna glared at Cale like he was filth scraped from her boot.
Then came the voice that made Cale's blood run cold.
"Cale," Mors said evenly, stepping into the torchlight, accompanied by Ashara. "If you survive this mission, you'll be my personal sparring partner for a month. Bite your tongue now, and I'll reduce it to one week."
Cale stammered, paling. "My… my prince, I—"
"Silence." Mors turned away, his focus shifting. "Jeremy. Are we set?"
"Almost," Jeremy replied. "Just waiting on the last of the provisions."
At that moment, Maester Orwyn came puffing down the pier, clutching his satchel. "Prince Mors—the letters have been sent—" He broke off to wheeze, then fumbled for a scroll.
Mors raised a brow. "Good. Was there something else?"
Orwyn handed him a sealed letter. "A raven from King's Landing. Another summons."
Mors cracked the seal, scanning the words. His face darkened into a deadpan. "The same demand—but now more urgent. The king wants me there immediately. Hmph. After this, then."
"Thank you, Maester Orwyn."
Orwyn nodded, still winded. "It is my duty. If there's nothing more, I'll return. Gods keep you, my prince."
Jeremy approached. "We're ready."
Mors nodded at Jeremy, then turned to Ashara, pulling her into a firm embrace before pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. "Hold Sunfort while I'm away. Three days at most—I'll be back with my aunt."
Ashara smiled softly, though her eyes betrayed worry. "I will. Go bring her home… and remember—we have a wedding soon. Don't keep me waiting."
He lingered on her face for a moment longer, committing every detail to memory, then turned and mounted the ship.
Raising his spear high, he leveled it toward the dark horizon where Myr awaited. His voice rang like steel across the deck:
"Men of the Eclipse— set sail!"
A roar of cheers erupted, echoing across the black waters as the Eclipse slipped into the night.
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One Day Later — Deep at Night, Coast of Myr
The Eclipse cut silently through black waters, its sails drawn tight against the faint night breeze. The moon hung low and pale, veiled behind thin clouds, casting the coast of Myr in ghostly silver. From afar, the city loomed like a slumbering beast—its lighthouse a blazing eye that swept its gaze across the sea.
On the deck, the men moved with quiet precision, armor muted beneath dark cloaks. No voices we heard, only the creak of wood and the hush of waves against the hull. Jeremy stood near the prow, gaze sharp, while Qerrin and Daven kept the others steady.
At the center, Mors leaned on the rail, Solaris in hand, its black-and-crimson tassels whispering in the wind. His violet eyes fixed on the coast ahead, hard and unblinking.
"There," he pointed to a stretch where fog lay thick and guards were few. "The city watch is spread thin. We'll use that. We have three hours until dawn—we're in and out before then. Understood?"
A ripple of quiet affirmations followed.
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They slipped the Eclipse between two merchant vessels, hiding in plain sight, then cut down the wandering guards who patrolled the docks.
"As planned, we split here," Mors said. "Ser Daven, make sure you're out before the distraction fully ignites. Understood?"
Daven smirked faintly. "No worries, my prince. We've got it."
Mors nodded once. "Good. Let's rendezvous with Arodan. If he got the message, he'll be waiting."
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They ghosted through the city's backstreets, avoiding patrols and slipping past brawls. Suddenly a big fire erupted behind them—likely Daven's handiwork. In the slums, they stopped at a burned-out hovel with a blackened door. Qerrin stepped forward and knocked a coded rhythm.
After a pause, a trapdoor creaked open. They slipped inside.
A man in dark robes eyed them sharply. "Unyielding we stand…"
"Steadfast we soar," Mors replied.
The man gave a curt nod, lowering his sword. "Follow me."
He led them into a chamber where five armed men waited, one wounded and being tended. Arodan stepped forward, relief flickering across his face.
"Prince Mors?"
Mors clasped his arm. "Arodan. Good to see you. Looks like you've been busy."
Arodan let out a weary breath. "Busy doesn't cover it. We've struck hard, but the syndicates are closing in. With respect, my prince—you shouldn't be here."
The men froze at the revelation that it truly was their prince standing before them.
"There was a change of plans," Mors said simply. "I had to come. Where's Idrin?"
"Tomorrow," Arodan answered grimly. "The guilds face each other in open combat. With most of their men called back, we meant to strike then, cause devastation and slip away. Too hot to linger much longer."
"Good." Mors's tone sharpened. "Who's been feeding you information?"
Arodan straightened proudly. "Local rebels, freed slaves, courtesans—anyone who hates the guilds and Myr as much as we do. They've banded together into a kind of rebellion. With their help, we've struck hard, crippling both the city's trade and its pride. Once the job is finished, we'll let them take the fall while we slip away."
Mors exhaled slowly, violet eyes narrowing. "Bring as many with us as you can. The Stepstones need people. I won't leave them all behind just to cover our trail… but your safety comes first."
Arodan hesitated. "…That would be difficult, my prince."
"Try," Mors said flatly.
"Yes, my prince."
Mors's eyes narrowed. "Have you seen a Dornish woman here? Scarred face. Stern bearing. Like a noble."
Recognition flickered across Arodan's face. "Mallary. She's been leading the rebels. Why? What's going on?"
Mors's jaw tightened. "…She's family."
Arodan's eyes widened. "Family?"
Before more could be said, the sounds of battle crashed through the hall—screams in the street, steel striking steel.
Arodan's face drained of color. "Gods… they've found us. That could be Ser Idrin."
Mors turned sharply, his aura flaring as his eyes narrowed to a razor's focus. "With me!"
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They burst into the night to find Idrin bloodied but grinning, his men locked in brutal combat with guild enforcers.
Mors didn't hesitate. Knives spun from his hands, archers crumpling at the rear as he surged forward in a blur—an elbow crushing one man's throat, Solaris driving through two more in the same breath. Steel flashed as he tore free his short blade and dagger, catching a strike with one and sliding the other into an eye. In a heartbeat both were sheathed again, his grip shifting on Solaris as he ripped it free, the spearhead bursting through another foe before he vaulted over the falling body, loosing a final knife that buried itself in the spine of a fleeing man.
In heartbeats, the fight was done.
Mors scanned the carnage. "Ser Idrin."
Idrin wiped blood from his lip, still smiling madly. "My prince… just in time for the fireworks. Wait—what are you doing here?"
But Mors wasn't listening. His gaze had fixed past Idrin to a woman frozen in shock, scars across her face catching the torchlight.
His chest tightened. He pulled off his mask, smiled faintly, and stepped forward. "Aunt Mellei."
Her breath hitched into a sob as he embraced her.
The others stood stunned, unsure what they were witnessing.
"We'll talk later," Mors said firmly, pulling her close. "For now—we leave. All of us."
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They fought their way back through alleys toward the docks.
Mors glanced at Idrin. "Those fireworks you mentioned…?"
Idrin's grin spread, eyes gleaming. "Well, I planted—"
BOOM. The city shook with an explosion. Then another. And another. Flames leapt skyward as ships and warehouses erupted.
Mors's eyes widened. Idrin only looked giddy, unhinged.
"Where's your ship?" Mors demanded.
"A merchant vessel in disguise," Idrin said proudly. "We've more than one rigged to blow."
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By the time they reached the harbor, chaos had consumed Myr. Ships scattered in panic. Fires spread like wildfire, consuming docks and spilling into the streets. Alarms wailed. The city burned.
The Eclipse cut free, slipping out amidst the exodus. Idrin and his men vanished into the blaze to finish their work.
From the deck, Mors watched the inferno with calm detachment, a trace of grim satisfaction tugging at his lips.
Beside him, Mellei sat silently, eyes fixed on the ruins of her prison. At last, her voice broke.
"I wasn't planning to return. I wanted to bury myself there—with my memory, my shame. As vengeance… As repentance."
Mors's jaw tightened. He let her words hang before answering. "…Aunt Mellei. Manfrey still needs you."
Her head whipped toward him, tears brimming. "Manfrey… I can't. Not like this. Scarred. Broken. Not just my body—" She choked back a sob. "I can't let him see me like this."
Mors placed a steady hand on hers. "He won't see scars. He'll see his mother. Returned to him."
Her sobs deepened. She clutched him tightly. "Mors… you've grown so much. I've missed so much."
He held her, violet eyes turning back toward the burning city.
'Not enough,' he thought. 'But it will have to do.'
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It had been two weeks since that night, and Myr was still burning. Sellswords had descended afterward, sacking what remained and spreading even greater devastation. It took the combined might of Tyrosh and Lys to restore a semblance of stability—but now the two powers bickered over the spoils. True peace would not return anytime soon.
The return of Mellei had been an immense event for both the Martells and the Ullers. The reunion between mother and son—Mellei and Manfrey—made every risk worthwhile. Mors had delayed telling her of Loreza's passing until after she was safely reunited with her son, sparing her from further despair. Knowing there was no institutional care in Dorne for such wounds of the spirit, he arranged for Manfrey to remain with his mother constantly, with Lewyn excusing him from duties with the Spears of the Sun so he could help her heal.
A letter was dispatched to Oberyn, urging his swift return. He had gone to Oldtown to attend to some urgent matter.
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Throne Room, King's Landing — Two Weeks Later
Mors strode into the throne room with Ser Jeremy Norridge and Ser Qerrin Toland close behind.
The Iron Throne loomed before him—jagged, monstrous, nothing like the almost childlike version he remembered from the show. This was no stage prop but a weapon of a seat: ugly, sharp, intimidating. Only then did he realize it was his first time stepping into this room.
"Prince Martell-Targaryen, Prince of the Stepstones, Warden of the Dornish Seas, and Advisor to the Crown!" the herald announced.
Mors advanced, his companions at his side, and the three knelt before the throne.
King Aerys, hair unkempt and nails grown long, laughed shrilly. "Good! My advisor has finally deigned to come serve me. Look, all of you—this is what a proper vassal looks like! I pointed to a threat across the sea, and he burned them to ash!" His cackle rang through the hall.
"Yes, burned them, as they deserved!" He sneered at his Hand. "Do you see, Tywin? This is the power of our blood—the blood of the dragon! Unlike you, you treacherous cat."
Tywin's jaw clenched, his fists curling, humiliation carved deep into his face.
"And you, Rhaegar," Aerys went on, spittle at his lips. "You should learn from Mors. Instead of wasting time with your songs and pageantry, you should be out there burning our enemies!"
Mors felt Rhaegar's emotions ripple toward him—fury, jealousy, and beneath them all, a sickly sense of triumph. The crown prince looked his way with a serene smile, but his eyes glittered with mocking playfulness, daring Mors to react.
It caught Mors off guard. Triumph? That was not the response he expected from someone just publicly scolded by his father.
At last, Aerys turned back to Mors with a manic grin. "Rise, all of you."
Mors obeyed, and the king's gaze burned into him with manic satisfaction.
"I initially summoned you for something else, but this action deserves a great prize—and so you shall have it!" Aerys raised his voice to the court. "Bear witness! By my decree, King Aerys II, I hereby announce that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen will wed Princess Elia Martell. Together, they will bring forth another Mors—this time coming directly from my line!"
Mors froze. His stomach dropped, terror cutting through his composure.
He looked at Rhaegar—smug smile fixed in place. At Aerys—cackling like he had delivered some grand boon. At the lords of the court—eyes burning with envy.
His voice broke as he forced the words out. "Your Grace… but Elia is betrothed to Lord Baelor Hightower. She—"
"Not anymore!" Aerys snapped, giddy with madness. "As king, I annul that betrothal. Baelor is unworthy to wed so close to you. Let Lord Leyton dare to come and complain."
Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Barristan Selmy shifted at the words, ever so slightly, but their faces remained carved in stone. Mors, too stunned, did not notice.
Rhaegar moved forward, his expression soft, his tone almost brotherly. He placed a hand on Mors's shoulder, his voice low enough for only those nearby to hear. "That's right, my good brother. No need to worry. Thanks to my suggestion, we can all be much closer from now on."
The smugness radiated off him like heat.
Mors's violet eyes darkened. 'I'm going to kill him.'
Applause thundered in the chamber, dragging him back into his body. He felt untethered, like he was watching from afar. His mind reeled. 'I need to get away. I need to think. I need—'
Aerys went on, "Additionally, my Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, will work with Prince Mors to eradicate all pirates from the Narrow Sea. I should like to see my enemies try to use them against me again." His gaze slid smugly toward Tywin as he spoke.
"Court dismissed!" Aerys shrieked, laughter echoing as the lords and courtiers bowed low.
And in that moment, he remembered what his mother had said nearly two years ago when it seemed the king was favoring him, "That is not necessarily a good thing, Mors. The weight of that attention is heavier than you can imagine…"
Aerys's laughter still hadn't subsided, grating against the chamber walls like a madman's hymn.
End of Arc III — The Rise of the Sun