Three Weeks After the Fall
The Water Gardens of Dorne were built as a haven of peace and equality—a place where children of all stations, noble and smallfolk alike, could rest and play among the fountains, pools, and shaded paths. But for Mors, peace had become a torment.
He stood at the edge of a shallow pool, barefoot, the water cool against his skin. Children laughed in the background, splashing and shrieking, their joy echoing off sandstone columns. Servants moved like whispers in the breeze, bringing fruit and cushions to shaded alcoves. It was a place meant for stillness—but his thoughts refused to be quiet.
He exhaled slowly, watching the ripple his toes made in the water.
'It's like I'm living in the eye of the storm. Everything looks calm… but the edges are moving. Fast.'
His hand flexed at his side, willing that hum beneath his skin to respond. There was no shimmer. No glowing light. No dramatic surge of magic. Just the steady beat of his heart and the feeling of fullness? Wholeness might be a better word. It pulsed through him, stronger by the day. But it remained vague. Undefined but always on.
'If I heal so quickly, I should be able to build muscle faster, right?'
Footsteps approached—familiar, measured. Doran.
"You've been quiet today," Doran said, his voice warm and observant.
Mors didn't turn. He kept his feet moving slowly in the shallow pool, watching the ripples scatter.
"I've had a lot on my mind lately."
Doran stopped beside him, hands folding behind his back.
"Having a lot on your mind isn't reason enough to isolate yourself." He paused. "Is it the pain? From the fall?"
'More like a rebirth than pain.'
Mors shook his head.
"No... I feel fine. Better than fine." He hesitated. "Stronger than I should."
Doran glanced down at him, brow lifting.
"Stronger how?"
"I tire slower. I react faster. And when I spar… it's like I've trained longer than I actually have."
He glanced sideways at his brother.
"It's not normal, is it?"
Doran studied him for a long moment.
"No. But then again, neither is surviving that kind of fall from a galloping horse."
He paused, voice lowering to a near whisper.
"Maybe it's the Targaryen blood mixing with the Rhoynar line…"
But Mors heard him clearly.
They stood in silence for a moment, broken only by distant laughter and the splash of a fountain.
"I want to return to Sunspear," Mors said suddenly.
Doran blinked. "Already?"
"We've been here months. It's peaceful, yes. But too peaceful. I need to be closer to the court. Closer to the world."
Doran turned to face him fully. "Mors… you're ten." He let out a quiet sigh. "You should be laughing, climbing trees, getting into trouble. Not brooding over politics and the future."
"I won't be ten forever," Mors said seriously—though the sight of such gravity on a child's face made Doran smile.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"No, you won't," he agreed, placing a hand on Mors's shoulder.
"But there's time enough for the games of politics later."
'Time isn't on our side. You just don't know it yet.' Mors thought.
Mors didn't respond, just stared at the rippling surface of the water.
Doran shifted gears. "Then tell me—why do you want to be back in Sunspear?"
"To learn," Mors said with mock sincerity. "I want to help Mother, and begin being useful to you—our ever-wise, soon-to-be Prince of Dorne."
He flashed a grin, but the intention behind the words felt real.
The both chuckled at that.
Then Mors turned serious. "And to know what's being decided while I'm left playing in the water."
"Ah," Doran said quietly. "So this is about Elia. About that conversation the other night?"
Mors stiffened slightly. "What have you heard?"
Doran gave him a measured look. "Nothing certain. Political marriages are always delicate. There are possibilities being explored, but interests still need to align. Nothing is confirmed."
He paused, then asked, "Why does this trouble you?"
'Because I've seen the future, brother. And it doesn't bode well for us.'
"Because I want her safe," Mors said aloud. "She's too important to be used as a pawn. Elia's frial. I don't want her to suffer."
Doran sighed, his expression softening. "I know. Believe me, I've argued more than once that she should have a say in it."
Mors turned toward him, eyes sharper than they should've been for a boy his age. "Do you?" he asked. "Have a say, I mean. When it comes to her marriage."
Doran's gaze hardened. "Not as much as I'd like," he admitted. "Mother still rules. And the Lords on the Council… they're eager to see Dorne rise through a powerful alliance. They see Elia as our best piece on the board."
'Of course they do. They'll do anything to improve their standings and situation.'
"And what of you?" Mors asked, shifting. "Do they have someone lined up for you as well?"
Doran gave a dry chuckle. "There have been… several attempts. None have worked out. But I doubt this can be delayed much longer."
"And what about me?" Mors asked, hesitantly.
Doran glanced at him, amused. "You? You're still too young."
"Not for long. The moment I turn twelve, they'll start eyeing Tyrell daughters or Volantene cousins."
Doran's smile faded. "You're not wrong."
Silence settled between them again. Mors reached down, scooping a handful of water and letting it stream through his fingers—cool, fleeting, impossible to hold.
"I want to join the Spears," he said.
Doran actually laughed. "So it finally comes out. This is why you want to return to Sunpear.?"
"I want to join the Spears," Mors said.
Doran actually laughed. "Ah, so that's what this is really about. This is why you want to return to Sunspear?"
He chuckled again, shaking his head. "You? The Spears of the Sun? Planning to squire for Uncle Lewyn now, are you?"
"I'm serious," Mors said, meeting his brother's gaze without flinching.
Doran's smile lingered, but his tone turned more measured. "And once again, in case you've forgotten—you're ten."
"And I'll be eleven soon. You joined court duties at that age. Elia was writing speeches. Oberyn was already fighting better than most guards. I need to do more."
Doran gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Lewyn is their commander. He's strict. Harsh even. Are you sure?"
'He's the best fighter in our family not named Oberyn. If I'm going to survive what's coming, I need real training.'
"Yes. Let me start. Even just physical training. Let me prove I'm not wasting time here."
Doran studied him for a moment longer before speaking.
"I'll bring it up with Mother," Doran said at last. "Though it won't be an easy sell. You know how protective she is."
He paused, considering.
"If she agrees—and that's a big if—we can speak to Uncle Lewyn. But even then, it's up to him. He'll want to assess you himself. At most, you'd begin drills. No promises beyond that."
"That's all I need," Mors replied, finally exhaling. The tension seemed to melt from his shoulders. "Just a chance."
Doran studied Mors's reaction carefully, then added,
"You'll have to wait though, the Spears are in the Prince's Pass, mediating renewed tensions between House Yronwood, and House Fowler."
"Oh, them again. This rivalry is never going away, is it?" Mors, sighed and said.
'Always Yronwood and Fowler. Proud banners, old grudges, and no end in sight.'
Doran chuckled, but turned serious. "With enough interest, or power, anything can happen."
They stood in silence for another moment, watching the children laugh and splash in the shallow pools.
Then Doran turned to Mors, his voice quieter. "You really have changed since your fall."
'I've changed since my death.'
"It seems so," Mors said instead.
Doran began to walk away, but paused at the first step.
"One more thing," Mors called after him.
Doran turned.
"When we return to Sunspear… I want to sit in on council meetings. Even if I just listen."
His brows lifted, caught between surprise and concern. "Mors—"
"Please," Mors said, almost a whisper.
There was a pause.
Then Doran sighed, the weight of too many responsibilities echoing in the sound.
"I'll consider it," he said quietly. "Just… try to be a child a little longer. Growing up is harder than you think."
He gave Mors one last look before turning down the corridor.
Mors exhaled—slow and steady—only then realizing he'd been holding his breath.
The sun glinted off the water, blinding him for a second. He looked down again at his reflection. Same silver hair. Same violet eyes.
And something else behind them now.
Purpose.
'This is the start. At least Doran was willing to accommodate my request. But did I push too hard?'
He stepped back from the water, drying his feet on a cloth laid beside the pool.
The wind smelled of salt and citrus.
The Water Gardens murmured behind him—the sound of children laughing and water splashing.
But Mors Martell had stopped listening.
He had begun planning. Preparing, and though it began with a small pebble—Doran—it was still action.
And now he would continue to take action as he walked away from the pools.
"I wonder if Oberyn and Manfrey are up for some additional sparring." Mors mused.
End of Prelude — Awakening