Mid–284 AC — Oldtown, Kingdom of the Reach
The Martell–Stark host reached Oldtown by late afternoon, where the great white tower of the Hightowers rose above the Whispering Sound like a pillar of light guiding their path. The city beneath it shimmered in the dying sun—its marble streets alive with color, banners fluttering in the sea breeze, and bells echoing faintly from the harbor.
Awaiting them at the gates stood Lord Leyton Hightower, tall and composed with a warm smile, his silver-streaked hair catching the last rays of daylight. Beside him were his heir, Ser Baelor Hightower, and Baelor's wife, Lady Alyse Rowan, along with Leyton's second wife, Lady Rhea Florent. With them stood his youngest children—Lynesse, twelve; Gunthor, ten; and Humfrey, eight—each arranged with the practiced grace of a great house receiving kings.
As the procession halted, Leyton stepped forward and bowed with solemn precision, his voice carrying easily over the courtyard.
"King Mors, King Brandon, and your honored families and guests—welcome to Oldtown. It is my great pleasure to receive you within my walls. His Grace, King Mace Tyrell, has entrusted me to guide your party to Highgarden. You shall find rest and comfort in my halls tonight, and at first light, we march for Highgarden. The carriages are prepared."
Mors smiled, clasping the older lord's forearm in greeting.
"Leyton, it's good to see you again. And Baelor—congratulations on your marriage to Lady Alyse. I remember her father well from the war. Lord Mathis is an honorable man."
Baelor inclined his head with quiet pride and warmth. "You honor me, Your Grace. The match has been a blessing—and my son already tries to steal my sword whenever I'm not looking."
Mors arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. 'Seven save us… he's proud his infant is playing with Valyrian steel,' he thought wryly, though a faint smile still tugged at his lips.
Alyse added with a gentle smile, "And I thank you, King Mors, for the mercy shown during the war. My lord father never forgot the dignity you and Dorne afforded him and his men while they were in your custody."
Mors's expression softened. "War is a terrible thing," he said. "It forces decent men who might have shared wine and friendship to raise steel against each other. I take no joy in that."
Sensing the tone grow somber, Ashara curtsied gracefully and interjected with a bright smile.
"Thank you for your welcome, my lords. We are all quite happy to finally be on land again."
Brandon Stark followed with a nod. "Well met, Lord Leyton, Lord Baelor, Lady Rhea, Lady Alyse."
Catelyn smiled warmly. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the Lord of the Hightower and his lovely family."
Then, breaking all sense of formality, a delighted voice pierced through the air.
"Daddy!"
Leyton's dignified composure dissolved at once as Malora ran forward and threw her arms around him. The usually solemn lord laughed aloud, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
"My moonbeam! Look at you—you shine brighter than the Beacon itself!"
Mors could barely hold his composure when he noticed the odd looks the Starks were now giving Leyton Hightower.
Malora grinned. "And you've gone grayer! Come on—your granddaughter's waiting to see you!"
Lady Rhea laughed softly, her tone teasing but kind. "My lord husband, perhaps we might continue this reunion indoors—say, during the feast?"
Leyton cleared his throat, regaining a measure of his poise though not his smile. "A fine suggestion, my dear. Come—my royal guests, the Hightower is yours for the night."
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After a relaxed and convivial feast, where both parties had a chance to speak freely and grow acquainted, Lord Leyton Hightower, Ser Baelor Hightower, King Brandon Stark, and King Mors Martell climbed the long spiral of the Hightower to the Lord's Solar. The great windows framed Oldtown aglow beneath the stars, the Beacon's fire burning steady above.
Brandon spoke first, his tone warm.
"Lord Leyton, thank you again for your hospitality. Catelyn felt quite at home here—and my sister and brother enjoyed themselves immensely."
Leyton smiled as he poured them each a drink.
"It was my pleasure, Your Grace. I always enjoy receiving honorable guests—especially kings who still remember courtesy."
Baelor, now a touch more relaxed, couldn't resist. "Father, you say that as if we've had kings lining up at our gates."
Leyton shot him a withering look. Baelor immediately turned toward the window, suddenly fascinated by a passing bird.
Mors chuckled under his breath, shaking his head in quiet amusement.
Brandon's brow lifted as he recognized the amber liquid.
"Is that… Sunfire Reserve?" he asked, glancing between Leyton, Mors, and Baelor.
Mors smirked. "Of course. We worked together to bring it to life. The first batch went straight to Lord Leyton as a gift."
Leyton laughed. "Please, Mors—calling it working together is generous. You needed ingredients, and I had the connections to find them. You did the magic."
The four men shared an easy laugh before Brandon's tone shifted, becoming more deliberate.
"Lord Leyton," he began, "I've heard from Mors that you've been… preparing—for what's to come, aye?"
Leyton blinked, clearly surprised, and turned a questioning look toward Mors.
Mors gave a slow nod. "He's been brought in."
Understanding dawned in Leyton's eyes. He exhaled, setting his glass down. "Yes… that's true."
He leaned back slightly, choosing his words with care.
"We have been blessed—or burdened—by a touch of magic in our blood. My daughter, Malora, began having… dreams. Dark dreams, though never clear. For years they tormented her—visions of fire turning to frost, of the world falling silent and dead… and other things she could not describe. In time, those visions hollowed her, and the bright child I once knew became a shadow of herself."
Brandon leaned forward, clearly intrigued, while Baelor lowered his gaze, seemingly reliving the memory of those years.
Leyton continued, his voice softening.
"Then, some years ago, she began to see Mors in those dreams. Everything changed. The cold that crept toward her would retreat whenever he appeared in her dreams. The nightmares lost their hold—and for the first time in years, she found peace. My daughter… began to return."
His final words trembled slightly, and there was a faint sheen of moisture in his eyes.
Brandon's eyes widened. "So she sees visions—like the old Targaryen dreamers?"
Leyton nodded. "Yes and no. Not prophetic, exactly. More… instinct-like. She feels the deathly cold spreading, slowly attaching itself to the world… to people. And when Mors draws near, it fades. It's as though something within him pushes it back."
Brandon sat back, silent for a moment, then said softly, "I've learned more about these things in the last two weeks than in all my years. So this—this is what led to your alliance?"
Leyton nodded again. "You could say that. If what my daughter senses is true, then all mankind will need to stand together. Ideally, we would have faced this as one realm, united against a single threat…" He paused, glancing meaningfully at Mors.
Mors chuckled, unashamed. "Goodfather, please. I didn't plan to shatter the realm. How was I to know my overwhelming charisma would inspire half of Westeros to crown itself?"
Leyton, Baelor, and Brandon all laughed, though Mors's humor faded into a sigh.
"The truth is, I couldn't stay bound to a throne that no longer represented us. Things might have been different if my brother… if Doran had lived. If King's Landing hadn't fallen the way it did." His voice trailed off, the flicker of sadness in his eyes betraying what the words did not.
Brandon leaned forward, his tone steady but sympathetic. "Aye, you did nothing wrong. For both the North and Dorne, independence was the only honest path." He paused, lips twitching with wry amusement. "Still… it does make uniting against what's coming that much harder."
Leyton nodded gravely. "That's where the Council of Kings comes in. Convincing my goodson, King Mace Tyrell, to host it took no small effort. I had to promise him that by leading the initiative, Mors would finally view him as an equal—and perhaps even call him friend."
Brandon blinked. "And why in the name of the Old Gods would he care about that?"
Mors groaned, rubbing at his temple. Across the table, Baelor's lips twitched with barely contained amusement as he glanced toward his father, silently urging him to go on.
Leyton's lips twitched with mirth. "Because Mors utterly humiliated him—both in war and, well… physically."
Brandon looked between them, confused.
"…Huh?" Brandon asked eloquently, blinking twice.
Leyton couldn't suppress his grin. "Let's just say Mace admires him a little too much—sees Mors as the ideal image of a knightly king from the Age of Heroes reborn. Ever since learning of my connection to Mors—and, by extension, his through Malora's marriage—he's been obsessed with impressing his 'glorious goodbrother.' Frankly, I've never seen Dornish–Reach relations this healthy."
Mors gave an exaggerated sigh. "The burdens of irresistible charm."
Baelor, mid-sip, nearly choked on his drink—managing to stifle a laugh that came out as a half-cough, half-spit take.
Mors shot him a knowing look, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Brandon, still clearly lost but amused by the exchange, glanced between them with a small grin of his own.
Baelor cleared his throat, still red-faced. "My apologies, Your Graces…"
Leyton only shook his head, though the smirk never left his face. "Speaking of charm—your decision to return Orphan-Maker to House Roxton was wise. It helped cement the idea that peace can truly endure between our two realms."
Mors nodded. "It was the right thing to do. We weren't truly enemies—just victims of circumstance."
"Indeed," Leyton said. "Now, as for the Reach—Mace can likely be persuaded, but Olenna Tyrell worries me. She's the true power behind the throne. Nothing moves in Highgarden without her blessing… And she only allows them to move if it's in their best interest."
Brandon frowned. "I reckon protecting all life in the realm would be in her best interest, wouldn't it?"
Mors sighed. "That's the problem. If we tell her that, she'll assume we'll handle it and she needn't bother."
Brandon muttered under his breath, "By the Old Gods, I'll never understand southern logic."
Leyton chuckled warmly. "Few Northerners do. But that's the way of things. The rest of the kingdoms thrive on intrigue and calculation. Not everyone can afford Stark honesty."
Mors nodded. "He's right, Brandon. I'm not sure how things are in the North, but Dornish politics are ruthless, though I've managed to keep the peace in large part to my brother's efforts and overwhelming strength. Still, the same rules apply when dealing with the other realms."
He turned to Leyton. "How should we proceed with the Reach, then? Will you need my help?"
Leyton rubbed his brow in thought. "Allow me to try first. If things stall, I'll ask for your help. We've already brought in Lords Mathis Rowan and Quentyn Roxton, and Lord Paxter Redwyne has long been in support, though Olenna's influence is still there. If Mace proves stubborn, we'll turn to Lords Randyll Tarly, Leo Ashford, and Bennet Fossoway—together we could form a sizable and influential bloc. But if all else fails…" He hesitated. "I'll bring in the Florents and their allies. My second wife's father, Lord Alester, still resents Tyrell rule, by this point the Florents just carry it in their blood, like a family trait. But that move will not please the Queen of Thorns and bring with it much trouble."
Mors exhaled slowly. "Then I'll trust your judgment, Goodfather. Brandon and I will focus on Prince Hoster Tully and King Denys Arryn. As for the Lannisters… I'm uncertain. I've had little contact with King Jaime or the Rock. We'll have a chance to gauge them properly at the tourney. And Robert Baratheon…" He glanced sideways at Brandon with a knowing look. "Well, we've already agreed on how to handle that particular storm."
Brandon's grin turned wry. "Aye," he said after a beat. "We'll try our hand at it when the time comes. I'll bring Eddard up to speed when I return—he's our best path there, given their friendship. And as for the Lannisters…" He leaned back, thinking aloud. "You've the right of it, Mors. We'll see what we can learn in Highgarden."
Baelor, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. "We had some dealings with the Rock before King Tywin's death, but then everything just… stopped. Father, why don't you share what you know?"
Leyton sighed, setting his cup down gently. "Right. There's little I can tell you about the Lannisters, but what I do know might have been… significant." He leaned back, eyes distant. "Before King Tywin's passing, Highgarden and I were in quiet discussions with him. He sought to bind the Rock and the Reach through marriage—my grandson Willas was to wed Cersei Lannister, and my daughter Lynesse, Jaime." He gave a weary shake of his head. "Mace could never stop boasting about it," he muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation. "But then Tywin died… and the twins—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "…married."
A long, uneasy silence followed.
Brandon broke it. "You don't reckon they actually…"
Mors rubbed his chin, gaze distant, while Leyton took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. Neither man answered, but the silence spoke louder than words.
Baelor shifted uncomfortably, glancing between them.
Finally, Leyton looked toward the dark window where the Beacon's light cut across the night sky.
"I think we have enough for now. Rest well, my kings. Tomorrow, we ride for Highgarden—and begin the first step toward unity."
He opened the door and bowed slightly as they exited. "Good night, my kings. And King Brandon—welcome to the War for the Dawn."
Brandon froze for a moment, then nodded firmly. "For the Dawn."
Mors smiled faintly, echoing the words. "Yes. For the Dawn."
Leyton raised his glass once more. "For the Dawn."
Baelor inclined his head solemnly. "We shall light the way… for the Dawn."
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Late Night — The Hightower, Oldtown
Mors and Brandon talked while making their way towards the guest wing, accompanied by their guards—Ser Barristan Selmy for Mors and Ser Rodrik Cassel for Brandon—with a Hightower servant leading them. Before they reached their chambers, however, the sound of laughter drew their attention to the common hall.
Inside, they found a lively scene.
At a long table sat Princess Lyanna Stark, Lady Allyria Dayne, Lady Lynesse Hightower, and Prince Benjen Stark, all deeply focused as Lyanna prepared to roll the dice for her turn at Race!—under the expert supervision of the reigning champion herself, Lady Malora Hightower.
"Princess," Malora said gravely, "you must put your heart into it. Visualize what you want. Then shake, shake, and shake until you feel the number close to your heart—and release! Let it all go, and the dice will answer you!"
Lyanna nodded seriously, muttering under her breath as she copied the chant.
"Shake, shake, shake—then release. Shake, shake, shake—then release!"
She cast the dice. They rolled and clattered—landing exactly where she wanted.
"Yes! Yes! Look, Malora, I got it!" she shouted, leaping from her seat and throwing her arms around her laughing mentor.
Across the table, Allyria and Benjen groaned in unison, both facepalming in defeat, while Lynesse Hightower gave them a very deliberate, very grown-up eye roll that said she was far too mature for this.
Malora, still half-laughing, made an exaggerated sniffle. "They grow up so quickly, don't they?"
Mors and Brandon stood at the doorway, watching the chaos with equal parts curiosity and amusement—until the unmistakable sound of giggling drew their eyes across the room.
On the far side, Queen Ashara Dayne, Queen Catelyn Stark, Lady Alyssa Uller, Lady Alyse Rowan, and Lady Rhea Florent were drinking Sunfire Reserve and chatting animatedly. Nearby, boards for Cyvasse, Chess, and Checkers lay abandoned—a clear sign the games had been replaced by wine and gossip. Even Catelyn, her auburn hair catching the candlelight, looked rosier than usual.
The guards kept watch nearby—Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Garth Hightower, and Ser Daro of Lemonwood among them.
Mors leaned toward Brandon, voice low and clearly amused.
"It seems they've bonded better than we expected. You think your queen will be all right? Any redder and I'd mistake her for a tomato."
Brandon chuckled, shaking his head. "She'll be fine. I hardly ever see her let loose like this." His expression softened. "Still… she's a southerner. She may never truly fit in at Winterfell."
Sensing the shift, Mors steered the conversation elsewhere.
"I'm more surprised to see your brother sitting in this garden of flowers instead of drinking with the men elsewhere. Look at him—completely flustered and trying to catch little Allyria's eye. Though I doubt she's noticed."
He laughed, watching as Allyria and Lynesse exchanged sharp looks. The two girls had clearly developed a rivalry—Allyria finding Lynesse too prim and polished, Lynesse finding Allyria far too tomboyish. Poor Benjen had no chance of winning anyone's attention.
Brandon's lips twitched. "Regardless, this is good. I reckon it'll help him see there's more to life than the Wall. I'd say the plan's half-succeeded already, aye?"
At that moment, Malora spotted them and hurried over, nearly skipping.
"Morsy!—I mean, Mors," she corrected quickly, muttering under her breath, "Can't be too casual, can't be too casual…"
She reached them and hugged Mors before turning to Brandon with a radiant smile.
"Mors, King Brandon—why don't you join us?"
Mors grinned. "Sure, we can play for a bit."
Across the room, the ladies had also noticed their arrival, and Mors couldn't miss the fiery look Queen Catelyn sent her husband's way.
'Oh,' he thought with amusement, 'it seems Brandon won't be sleeping much tonight. Perhaps another wolf cub soon?'
Just then, Baelor Hightower appeared at the doorway. "Ah, there you are, Alyse. I didn't see you in our chambers and came to check. It seems you've all been enjoying yourselves."
Alyse smiled politely. "Yes, my lord husband. It's been lovely spending time with the ladies—and with their Graces."
Mors, taking Benjen's vacated seat as the young man retreated in defeat, added with an easy smile, "Then you'll have plenty more chances as we make our way to the tourney."
He joined the table, laughing and rolling dice alongside the girls, while Brandon and Baelor settled near the women—though Mors couldn't help noticing the curious, lingering glances young Lynesse kept sending his way.
'Gods,' he thought, half amused, half resigned, 'does she have a crush on me? She should be playing with dolls, not making eyes at kings.'
And so the night passed in warmth and laughter, the three great houses sharing food, drink, and good company—until at last, they all retired to rest and prepare for the journey ahead at dawn.
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Later that night, as Mors and Ashara lay together beneath the soft lantern glow, she shifted against him, her voice thoughtful.
"Sunny," she began quietly, "today the boys were playing knights. It started as fun—just wooden swords and laughter—but then it turned into a scuffle. That in itself isn't the problem, but… little Daeron overpowered Lord Leyton's youngest, Humfrey. He's four years older, Mors." She hesitated, worry creeping into her tone. "We can pass it off as luck for now, but as he grows, I'm afraid people will start to notice."
Mors, who had been smiling faintly as she spoke, grew solemn. He said nothing for a long moment, his eyes distant in thought.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice low. "It's bound to become a problem. Daeron's too young to understand the danger of showing what he can do. All our children will face this, one way or another."
Ashara hugged him, resting her head on his chest. "Do you think we should send him back?" she asked softly. "He's safe here, but at Highgarden… with the eyes of most of the kingdoms watching…" She didn't finish the thought.
Mors nodded slowly. "We'll consider it. Worst case, Oberyn's taking the land route through the Prince's Pass—he could escort Daeron back if it comes to that. But I don't think it's serious enough yet."
Ashara looked up at him. "How did you ever manage to hide it at that age?"
Mors smiled faintly. "I didn't have it at that age. It came after my fall from the sand-steed at the Water Gardens—when Oberyn and I were racing. I was ten. What our children face will be different entirely. From what I've seen, the aura they've inherited—and the one you, Malora, and Alyssa carry from bearing them—is much weaker in scale, though that could change. I'll need to observe more."
Ashara considered this, then smiled mischievously. "Still, it's remarkable. I gained power simply by carrying your child. And since I've had two…" She gave him a playful look. "I'm stronger than Malora and Alyssa now. So tell me, my sun—if I have many little Sunnys, do you think I might finally outmatch you?"
Mors chuckled softly, pulling her closer. "I suppose we can find out," he murmured before kissing her tenderly.
Just as the moment deepened, a knock sounded at the door.
"Morsy, I can't sleep! I'm coming in!"
They broke apart with an exasperated laugh.
Ashara called out, "Come in, sister."
The door creaked open, revealing Malora—dragging a reluctant, red-faced Alyssa by the wrist.
Alyssa, catching Mors and Ashara's amused smiles, stammered quickly, "I didn't want to disturb anyone, but Malora insisted—"
Malora rolled her eyes. "Right, right. Says the one who was just talking about how she likes to ride Mors like a—"
Alyssa clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks blazing. "Don't you dare finish that!"
Even her darker shade of skin couldn't hide the flush that crept up her neck.
Mors and Ashara both burst into laughter.
"It's surprising you can still be so shy," Mors teased lightly, "considering how close we all are." He patted the bed with a grin. "Come on—the bed's big enough for everyone."
Nothing more happened that night, but the warmth they shared beneath the covers was enough to remind them of how deep their bond truly ran.