A few moments later.
They walked the perimeter of the sparring ring. Jeremy moved like a man shaped by decades of training—precise, controlled, never flashy.
"I loved him," Jeremy said quietly.
Mors stopped mid-step, turning sharply toward him. "Wait… you mean you and my father were…"
Jeremy let out a soft chuckle. "Yes. Matters of the heart are rarely something we control." He paused before adding, "He was betrothed, you know—to Olenna Redwyne. Yes, the mother of the current Lord of the Reach."
Mors blinked. "Seriously?"
"Fortunately, she wasn't too keen on it, and neither was Daeron. They both had sharp tongues. Too sharp for each other."
Mors furrowed his brow. "Then how… did I happen?"
Jeremy's expression softened. "Your mother, Daeron, and I were close—very close. When Loreza's first husband died, Daeron wanted to comfort her. Your grandfather, King Aegon, saw an opportunity to draw Dorne closer to the Crown and suggested they marry. It was meant to be platonic—a gesture of support. But wine, grief, and old affection…" He shrugged. "Well, you can imagine the rest."
Mors just nodded slowly, still processing.
Jeremy's voice dipped, touched with reverence. "He was light and fire, foolish and brilliant. He didn't see the world as it was—he saw it as it could be. I admired him for that. Maybe I loved him for it."
He glanced at Mors—deeply, as if seeing someone else. Then he spoke, not like a soldier recalling a tale, but like a man confessing a sin.
"And then he died. So many of them did—chasing his father's... ambitions. They called it the Tragedy at Summerhall. I wasn't there with him. I should have been. But I wasn't."
He paused, voice thickening. "I think the real tragedy—for me—was that he died while I lived."
He paused.
"I was away—retrieving a gift. A spear, Dornish-forged from ironwood, black and red. It was meant to symbolize what we were. By the time I returned... there was only ash."
Jeremy stopped walking.
"I thought about dying. Thought about it a lot. But then I learned your mother was pregnant—who would've thought?" He let out a dry chuckle. "I stayed... I wanted to witness the legacy of Daeron before... well, before I made any decisions."
He exhaled slowly. "But when you were born—when I saw your face, your features—I realized maybe I still had a purpose. I foolishly asked Loreza to let me take you to King's Landing, to raise you there with your Targaryen kin."
His smile faded. "She refused, wisely. Said you were a Martell. That this was your home."
He gave a sad smile. "And she was right. Princes aren't raised by grieving ghosts."
Mors exhaled slowly. "So you left."
Jeremy nodded. "I did. Wandered for a while. Eventually went east—Free Cities, Basilisk Isles, Disputed Lands. Spent four years with the Second Sons. Trained. Fought. Learned how to lead. Studied tactics, languages, things I never knew I lacked. I didn't want to just be a 'dashing knight.' I wanted to become someone worthy. Someone who could stand beside you."
He stopped again.
Then he knelt.
"If you'll have me, I pledge my sword to you. Not to House Martell. Not to Dorne. To you, Prince Mors Martell of House Martell—son of Prince Daeron Targaryen."
He continued, voice steady with conviction:
"I offer my service, Prince Mors. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
Mors stared. No one had ever offered him that—not like this.
But he understood the weight of what was being given.
He straightened, his voice clear.
"Then hear my vow," he said after a moment. "You shall always have a place at my hearth, meat and mead at my table. I swear never to ask for dishonorable service. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
He took a breath.
"Arise. And serve with honor."
Jeremy stood, his face composed but deeply moved.
Lewyn, who had been trailing them to ensure Mors's safety, gave a short nod and stepped back to give them space. Now that Jeremy had sworn himself to Mors, he'd allowed himself to ease up—if only a little.
As they sat along the edge of the training yard, cooling down with water and dates after their walk and conversation, Jeremy finally spoke.
"I've heard you're something special with a blade," he said. "Lewyn couldn't stop praising you. Said he's rarely—if ever—seen potential and progress like yours. Especially at your age."
Mors gave a small chuckle. "I've been improving fast… but it's not enough."
He paused, then added, "I also lost nearly six months because of… the tour."
Mors's voice dipped briefly, but he moved on before the silence could settle.
"Besides the bruise on your eye—why do you have so many others? They all look fresh."
Mor's tone was casual, with light amusement—but after watching the earlier sparring match between Jeremy and Lewyn, he already had his suspicions.
Jeremy laughed—low, dry, and wry.
"Lewyn," he said simply. "He wasn't exactly thrilled to see me again. Called me a deserter. Said I abandoned Loreza. Questioned whether I was still worth anything with a sword."
He stretched his shoulder with a grunt. "So we fought. Sparred every day. Sometimes twice. He hits hard. But I hit back."
He gave Mors a crooked smile. "I've come a long way over the years. I can even beat Lewyn now... well, occasionally."
Mors smirked. "So he respects you now?"
Jeremy shrugged with a chuckle. "I've known Lewyn a long time—hard to read, that one. But he's been glaring at me less lately. I'll take it as progress."
Mors studied him for a moment. "You said you wanted to raise me. Why?"
Jeremy's expression sobered.
"The truth is, I wanted you to have the same chances he did. I'll admit—I still had my biases about Dorne. But Loreza set me straight. And when I saw you... I saw Daeron."
He paused, then added more quietly,
"But now I see it clearly—you carry him with you. I see it in your stance, your eyes... But there's more. Something still taking shape. Something powerful."
Mors sat in silence for a moment, letting the words settle.
Then Mors nodded. "Moving forward... I'll need your help. I'll be depending on you."
Jeremy met his gaze and saw it—that weight Mors carried, invisible to others but unmistakable to him. He nodded once, firm and without hesitation.
"Gladly."
That evening, as the halls of Sunspear quieted, Mors walked the corridor that passed the family solar.
He slowed.
Voices carried.
Maron.
"He's doing it deliberately. King Aerys is backing Volantis—pouring coin into their trade war with Myr and Tyrosh. Just to contradict Tywin's counsel."
Doran responded, calm but measured.
"He's growing unpredictable. Tywin knows it. That's why he tried to step down as Hand. Even now—after losing his wife—Aerys refuses to let him resign."
"If Myr and Tyrosh retaliate with piracy," Maron said, "it'll start with attacks on the shipping lanes. Stepstones first. That's our doorstep."
Mors stepped through the doorway.
"Then we prepare now," he said.
Both men turned.
Doran offered a faint smile. "You know, little brother, it's not polite to eavesdrop."
"The door was open, so…" Mors replied with a shrug.
Maron nodded. "Then understand this: Our king—Aerys—has been acting erratically. Volantis is only the beginning. And whatever we may think of Tywin Lannister, he's an excellent Hand. This... this is self-sabotage."
Doran crossed his arms. "We don't know if this ends in war. But if it does—we can't be caught off guard."
Maron added, "I'll speak to Loreza. I'm going to King's Landing. Someone has to speak sense to the Small Council."
Mors nodded slowly.
He didn't voice it, but the thought was already forming—
Something was coming. And he still had a long way to go.
As Mors stepped into his room, he noticed something new—something that hadn't been there before. A long shape rested atop his bed, carefully wrapped in cloth. He approached it slowly, noting a small folded note tucked beneath the wrappings.
He picked it up.
To: Mors
From: Jeremy
So that you can carry a piece of the legacy your father couldn't.
Mors stilled.
He peeled back the cloth—and stopped breathing for a moment.
The spear lay before him, over seven feet long. Its shaft was carved from dense northern ironwood, polished to a dark, gleaming finish like black glass. Intricate etchings ran up from the base—subtle, winding flame-like patterns burned into the grain.
The spearhead was castle-forged steel, shaped in the elegant leaf-blade style favored in Dorne for both thrusting and slashing. Its edges shimmered faintly with a reddish hue—like tempered embers caught in sunlight.
Just below the socket, an inlaid emblem gleamed: a silver sun wrapped in twin dragon wings.
Tied beneath the blade, a tassel of black and crimson silk—House Targaryen's colors—braided in Dornish fashion, swayed in the breeze drifting in from the balcony. It moved like fire.
More than a weapon, it was a shard of memory, a bond of blood, a promise reborn.
Mors held it firmly in both hands, then walked to the window, the wind lifting the tassel behind him like a banner.