One Week Later
After Mellario had rested, the party spent several days at Sunfort. Ashara, Elia, and Alyssa enjoyed themselves together, and once Mellario felt stronger she joined them—though she remained more restrained, mindful of her pregnancy.
When their ship and escort arrived at Sunspear's port, a small party was waiting on the docks. At the front stood Doran himself, visibly eager for the reunion after learning of Mellario's condition. The moment they disembarked, he forgot all formality and swept her into an embrace, holding her tightly as if no one else in the world existed.
Elia leaned toward Mors and said loudly enough for others to hear, "Do you see that, brother? We've been completely forgotten. I doubt Doran even realizes there are other people on this dock besides Mellario."
Mors tilted his head thoughtfully, lips twitching into a smirk. "Hmm, yes… I see what you mean, sister. He hasn't even noticed the ground beneath his feet—he practically flew like a dragon."
Ashara stepped closer, chuckling. "Stop teasing. He's just happy. Honestly, we all are. And Mors—don't think I haven't noticed how closely you've been looking after Mellario these past days."
Mors arched a brow. "Oh? So you've been keeping a close eye on me, have you?" he teased back.
Ashara didn't flinch or look away. Instead, with a steady voice and a soft smile, she answered, "Always. I'm always looking at you."
Mors's eyes widened slightly, then softened. He reached out and gently took her hand.
The unexpected gesture made Ashara crumble; she flushed crimson but didn't pull away, nor did she break eye contact. When Mors turned back toward Doran, Ashara did a tiny, delighted spin on her toes, grinning at Elia and Alyssa, who exchanged knowing smiles.
"It's about time, blockhead," Elia muttered under her breath, still smiling fondly at her brother.
At that moment, Doran finally released Mellario after whispering something to her that made her laugh softly. Turning back, he greeted the others warmly. "My apologies—brother, sister, Ashara, Alyssa. Good to see you back as well, Areo. And… oh? No Ser Jeremy this time?" His eyes flicked across Ser Bedwyck, Ser Idrin, and Ser Tahlor as they disembarked, noting the absence.
Mors, still smiling, explained, "That's right. Since becoming my Castellan his workload has only grown. There are many projects waiting for me at Sunfort, and I can trust only him to oversee them in my absence. Especially considering this was a sudden trip."
Doran nodded. "I was surprised to hear you were coming. I hadn't expected you for another month at least."
As they walked toward the carriages, Mors said quietly, "After Elia mentioned Mother's condition… I wanted to see if there was anything I could do."
Doran's expression grew somber as he helped Mellario into the carriage. "Yes… it's troubling. Mother's injuries aren't healing as they should. Maester Torvian suspects an obscure affliction known as the Slow Rot. He's still investigating, but it could be serious. Something about the body no longer able to mend itself properly over time. As you can imagine, this is being kept a strict secret—no telling what trouble might follow if word spread. Mother is… taking it well, all things considered."
Mors's brow furrowed. 'The Slow Rot? A strange name. Does that mean wounds struggle to heal? Why does that sound so familiar? He drifted into thought until—'
"Mors. MORS!"
He blinked and looked back at Doran. "Ah—sorry. Just thinking on it. What were you saying?"
Doran gave him a searching look, assuming it was simple worry. "I said Mother doesn't want us to fret. She insists it isn't serious. But I suspect she simply doesn't want us burdened with her pain."
Elia's face darkened with worry at his words, and Ashara quietly laced her fingers through hers, holding firm.
–––––––––––––––––
After a while, they arrived at the castle and made their way to Loreza's solar. Loreza, seated at her desk with quill and papers before her, brightened as she saw them enter. Rising carefully with the aid of her cane, she opened her arms. Elia hurried forward first, receiving a warm embrace and a kiss on the brow. Loreza then moved to Mellario, smiling broadly.
"Congratulations, my dear," she said fondly. "You should have seen how excited Doran was when we got the letter. He was so happy, so anxious—I thought he might fly out that very day to meet you. Fortunately, he calmed down after I reminded him that pirate activity was minimal… and that Mors was with you."
Her smile turned to her youngest son as she spoke.
Mellario gave Doran a soft, affectionate glance before pulling him into another embrace.
Laughter and light conversation filled the solar for a time, until Mors's tone grew more serious. "Mother, I've heard your wound still hasn't closed properly. I'd like to… give it a try."
Loreza tried to wave him off with a faint smile. "No need to worry. It's only been slow to heal because I've been too busy. It's patched well enough—it should close soon."
"I understand," Mors replied gently, "but I'm here now. Let's just try."
She sighed, but her smile softened. "Very well, go ahead."
Mors knelt beside her, resting his hand lightly on her thigh before closing his eyes in focus. He pushed his aura into her body, willing it to mend what stubbornly refused to heal. Almost at once, he felt a strange resistance—not rejection, but as though his aura were groping for something absent, trying to stir a spark that simply wasn't there. The sensation unsettled him, like pressing a key into a lock that had no tumblers. 'That's… strange. Come to think of it, I've never done this with direct contact before.'
Loreza drew in a quiet breath. "Oh—I feel something… a tingling. Almost an itch." Her hand twitched as if to scratch, but Mors caught it.
"Let it be, Mother. That means it's working. That means it's healing."
Her brows lifted in surprise, and then her lips curved into a genuine smile. For the first time, Mors could feel through the faint feedback of his aura just how much she had been worrying beneath the mask of calm.
After what felt like a deceptively long while, Mors finally pulled his hand back. "All done. Try standing. Without the cane."
Loreza hesitated, then obeyed. She wavered for a moment, unsteady on her feet—but then, slowly, she stood tall and took a step unaided. Then another. When she turned back, her eyes glistened.
"Thank you, Mors. You cannot know what this means to me—or to all of us. I cannot keep projecting weakness. This lifts a heavy burden from my heart."
Mors embraced her tightly, kissing her brow. "It's nothing more than what I should do."
Then, with a glance toward Doran, he added, "Brother, why don't we leave Mother and the ladies to enjoy themselves? You said you had something to share."
Doran nodded. "Yes. This is as good a time as any. To my solar, then. Have fun, ladies."
As Mors turned to leave, he caught Elia's playful voice drifting after him: "Mother—Ashara and Mors were holding hands. They—"
The door closed behind him, cutting the rest off.
He stilled at the words, caught between embarrassment and thought. Doran gave him only a knowing smile as they walked the quiet corridor.
"It seems," Doran said casually, "you've come to a decision of sorts about Ashara."
Mors hesitated, wrestling with the thought. "I enjoy her company. She's my dearest friend. And… I don't think I could accept anyone else growing close to her. But… I feel I still have too much to do before I can commit to something like that."
Doran's expression warmed, pleased. "That is perfectly fine. What matters is that you've reached that decision in your heart. The rest will follow. We can begin to think about arrangements when the time is right."
Mors gave a small nod, but added, "Let me speak with her first. I want to be certain she understands exactly where I stand."
"Of course," Doran said easily, leading them into his solar. He poured two goblets of rich Arbor Gold, a vintage brought back from their old courtship tour years ago, and handed one to his brother.
–––––––––––––––––
After a moment of silence, the brothers simply enjoyed their wine together. At last, Doran broke it, his voice calm, reassuring, almost paternal.
"It seems there is something you wished to tell me. Have you gathered your thoughts?"
Mors nodded heavily. "I was able to heal Mother, but it was harder than it should have been. Healing takes the most out of me, but never that much. Doran… Mother is truly ill." His expression was grave.
Doran's face hardened. He let out a long breath, then drained his cup in one swallow. "But she should be better now, yes? She can walk without the cane, and some of the strength she'd lost has returned." There was hope in his tone.
Mors shook his head. "My power is not miraculous. On myself, yes, it works to near-miraculous levels. But on others, it only strengthens what the body is already willing to do. Mother's body did not want to heal—I had to force it. 'Slow Rot'… that name fits. I don't know the full extent, but this symptom alone matches it." He looked Doran in the eye. "Whatever Maester Torvian discovers, no matter how small, send it to me immediately. This sickness may worsen."
Doran nodded, poured another cup of Arbor Gold, and rose to stare out the window in silence. Mors joined him.
Then Doran suddenly remembered something. His eyes sharpened. "Ah. With all this talk, I nearly forgot." He turned to Mors with deadly seriousness. "What I am about to show you—no one else can know. Only Mother and I are aware of it."
He moved quickly to his desk, withdrew a key, and unlocked a hidden compartment behind a carved bust of Nymeria. From within he pulled a bundle of documents, the parchment stained with dried blood and sweat. He handed them to Mors. "Look."
Mors scanned the pages. His eyes widened as he read, until he stopped abruptly and looked up. "Doran… this?"
Doran gave a heavy nod. "Yes. The formula for Myrish glass. And not just any formula—this is said to be an improved version. Clearer, cheaper, easier to produce than anything before it. Or so these documents insist. The real question is why it reached us… and whose blood paid the price to send it here."
Mors studied the bloodstains. "A trap, perhaps? No… this reminds me. We captured a well-dressed 'pirate' two weeks ago. He spoke of upheaval in Myr—the syndicates at war, leaders murdered by whores. This could be tied to that."
Doran's eyes narrowed. "Send for him. We'll drag every secret out of him. If there is collusion within Dorne, I want names. I suspect the Wyls—though I wouldn't put it past Ormund Yronwood either. Still, Ormund is too clever for something so overt."
Mors nodded. "I'll have him brought here."
"Good." They drank in silence for a while before Doran asked, "What do you think?"
Mors closed the parchments and met his brother's gaze. "If we ignore this, we're fools. This is an opportunity for Dorne to rise."
Doran considered, frowning. "If we pursue this, Myr will come for us. The other Free Cities may as well. And the Crown—especially the Crown."
Mors leaned forward. "We are already in a cold war with Myr. That changes nothing. The other daughters may fight or ally depending on coin, but their hostility isn't certain. The rest of the Free Cities are unlikely to intervene—especially if we give them trade. As for the Crown, that is the greater risk. Yet even there, we might turn it to advantage. Tywin Lannister will despise what this does for our coffers, but with the King's animosity toward him, any open opposition could be turned to our favor—at least in the short term."
For the first time that night, Doran smiled, genuine and proud. "Well reasoned. Your assessment matches ours, though you treat the Free Cities with less caution. Still—good. Very good. We are scouting sites for production."
Mors flipped through the last pages. "Choose somewhere isolated. The fumes will be dangerous. The wind must carry them away from settlements."
Doran blinked, impressed. "Brilliant. I hadn't considered that. I'm glad you're here, brother… Oh—right!"
He rose suddenly, crossing the chamber to a corner where a long, cloth-draped box rested. Carefully, he lifted it onto his desk. Mors's eyes narrowed with anticipation.
"Brother… is this—?"
Doran nodded, his lips curving. "Yes. It arrived two days past. And by the Seven, it is magnificent."
Mors stood, removing the lid with deliberate care. His breath caught. Within lay Solaris, transformed. What had once been a prized weapon was now elevated—reborn into something near-mythic, a heirloom worthy of legend.
"The Solaris…" Mors whispered in awe.
The spear stretched over seven feet, its shaft hewn from dense northern ironwood, polished to a dark sheen that gleamed like black glass. Along its length ran fine, flame-like etchings burned into the grain, subtle yet alive with motion when the light struck. Two bands of castle-forged steel descended from the head, reinforcing the join of metal and wood.
But it was the spearhead that stole his breath. Twenty inches of black Valyrian steel, its surface alive with rippling waves. Forged from the Valyrian short sword he had once claimed, it had been masterfully refitted—now promising both savage thrusts and sweeping cuts. When the torchlight kissed its edge, a faint reddish glow shimmered there, like embers slumbering beneath the metal, waiting to awaken.
Mors stared, reverent. "Perfect… Tomorrow, I'll begin with it. But tonight—" he raised his cup with a rare, full smile—"tonight we celebrate. To Mellario, your child, Mother's recovery, Elia's laughter… and to us."
Doran raised his own cup, voice ringing with warmth. "I'll drink to that."
They spent the rest of the night refining plans over Arbor Gold until both were drunk. Mors refused to burn away the alcohol with his aura—he wanted to savor this rare night of closeness.
The next morning, Sunspear whispered of two handsome princes seen running half-naked through the courtyards, before plunging laughing into the fountain.