A vast field stretched before him, an endless expanse of color and life. The tapestry of wildflowers shimmered beneath the sun, hues so vivid they felt almost alive. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, their soft hum blending with the whisper of the breeze.
The sunlight was warm but gentle—not burning, only soothing—filling him with the strange desire to lie down and rest, to stay in that place forever. It was as close to the idea of paradise as Mors could imagine.
Further ahead, a lone wolf cub rolled playfully in the grass. It tumbled, then leapt, spun in circles, and rolled again. Its fur was dusted with petals, and a crown of flowers rested crookedly upon its head.
Then Mors noticed something moving stealthily through the tall grass. The flowers parted, slow and deliberate, until the shape crept within a meter of the wolf. The wolf remained blissfully unaware, still wriggling in contentment.
From the grass emerged a snake—ugly, deformed, its fangs long and jagged, dripping with green venom that hissed as it touched the petals.
The wolf twitched, ears pricking at a sound. It turned—just as the snake struck.
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The vision shifted.
A storm raged across the land. Thunder rolled; rain poured in torrents from a sky black as iron. Beneath it, the sea churned and heaved, and from its depths a kraken rose—slowly, monstrously—until only its eyes broke the surface. It seemed to study the horizon, then sank again into the dark.
For a moment, the sea was still—until a dozen colossal tentacles erupted upward, writhing in fury. They swept across the waves, seizing ships and dragging them down into the deep. Then they reached farther, slithering toward the mainland—coiling through the fertile fields of the Reach, tearing across the golden coasts of the Westerlands, and stretching even to the snow-crowned North beyond the Neck.
While Mors watched, frozen in disbelief, something rose behind him under the cover of the storm—a towering spire draped in bleeding silk, its base swallowed by the sea. It gleamed with cruel beauty, colors of crimson, sapphire, and amethyst bleeding down its sides. Before he could move, the tower tilted and fell toward him with terrifying speed. It struck the water, and a wall of black waves erupted outward, racing to consume everything in its path. The roar swallowed all sound—and then it was upon him.
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The vision shifted again.
Snow covered the land in silence. The stillness carried a strange peace; even the air seemed to breathe slower. A lone wolf padded across the white, its steps soundless, its breath misting softly in the cold.
It stalked prey somewhere ahead—a faint movement beneath a birch tree. Perched above, a three-eyed raven watched from a branch, cawing once into the quiet.
Then, from behind the raven, a figure emerged—a man, skinless and red, holding a spear poised to strike the wolf.
The raven didn't stir. Its three eyes tracked the wolf with eerie patience, as if its path were already known—watched, guided, claimed.
The skinless man waited, spear raised, posed for the kill.
Then, without warning, the raven's head snapped toward Mors.
All three eyes fixed on him—wide, searching, afraid. It shrieked, wings flaring, and vanished into the white.
Before Mors could react, the world shifted once more—faster this time.
He felt himself moving, racing as though on horseback, the landscape blurring past in streaks of color and snow. Ahead loomed something vast and invisible—a wall of power that resisted his every stride. For an instant he felt it push back, ancient and cold, humming with forgotten magic. Then, with a final surge, he broke through and found himself beyond it—into a land of endless white. No life. No sound. Only cold.
Still he pressed on until a shape appeared ahead—a great white fortress, beautiful and terrible, more prison than castle. He slowed as he passed through its walls, drawn to its heart.
There, encased within the ice, sat a corpse-like being upon a throne. Its crown was carved from frozen crystal, its flesh pale as snow. The body was motionless—until the eyes opened.
Twin moons of white light flared in the dark.
Mors could not move.
He felt the weight of it.
He felt dread.
He felt fear.
The world began to shake.
"…rs."
Cold sweat ran down his temple.
"…ors."
The light grew, the eyes expanding until they filled everything.
"Mors!"
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Mors woke with a start, breath catching in his throat. Cold sweat clung to his skin.
He looked around, blinking through the darkness, until a pair of pale blue eyes met his—Malora's. At some point during the night, she had shifted closer, her head resting lightly on his chest.
"Malora?" he asked, voice rough with sleep. Beyond the pavilion flap, it was still dark; the faintest trace of dawn had yet to touch the sky.
"Mors… Morsy," Malora whispered softly, careful not to wake Ashara and Alyssa, sleeping on either side of him. "Are you all right? Did you have a bad dream?"
"Bad dream…" Mors echoed, the images still flickering behind his eyes. "Yes… I suppose it was."
"Was it just a dream?" Malora pressed gently.
"That," he said after a moment, "I'm not sure. Maybe not."
"You were covered in Clingers," she said seriously. "They were about to swallow you until you woke up—and then they vanished."
Mors frowned. "Clingers, you say… was it stronger than what you usually see?"
Malora nodded solemnly. "Much stronger. I was scared."
Seeing the worry in her eyes, Mors wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. "Don't worry, Lora. I'm very strong. Sleep now—we'll talk about it later."
She nodded, murmuring a quiet, "Mm," before resting her head against his chest once more.
Mors smiled faintly at the gesture, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The warmth of her breath steadied him, but the unease lingered.
'What in the Seven Hells was that?' he thought. 'It wasn't a dragondream—but it wasn't just a bad dream either. I'll need to be careful… and I need to share this with the others—especially Brandon; the wolf symbolism is too clear to ignore.'
With that thought—and others best left for morning—Mors drifted back to sleep.
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Day of the Highgarden Tourney
It was another radiant morning in Highgarden—the day of the long-awaited tourney. The stands overflowed with lords, ladies, and smallfolk alike, a sea of color and anticipation beneath the golden sun. At the heart of it all stood King Mace Tyrell, beaming in the royal gallery where the rulers of the various kingdoms sat among their kin, friends, and entourages.
The smile on Mace's face was so wide that, had it been night, it could have replaced the beacon of Oldtown itself.
"Welcome, welcome! Welcome to the Tourney of Highgarden!" Mace proclaimed, voice booming across the lists as he spread his arms with theatrical flair.
The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound rolling like thunder through the valley of roses.
"I thank all of you for joining us on this glorious day—the first great tourney since the fall of the mad king's tyranny!" he announced proudly. "I thank the kings of every realm who grace us with their presence today: King Mors Martell of Dorne, Storm King Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands, King Jaime Lannister of the Rock, King Denys Arryn of the Mountain and Vale, and King Brandon Stark of the North!
"Let this mark the dawn of a new age—one of peace, prosperity, and friendship among our kingdoms! And with this humble tourney, let that age begin!"
Wild applause followed, the crowd's energy crackling through the air like static before a summer storm.
Mors chuckled quietly, turning to Ashara beside him. "You can say many things about Mace, but he's quite the showman. That was impressively done."
Ashara smiled in agreement, her eyes still on the jubilant Reachmen. "It really was. It's like he lives for these moments. I'm genuinely surprised."
And with that, the horns sounded, banners rippled in the breeze, and the Tourney of Highgarden began in earnest—three days of contests beneath the golden sun: archery, the group melee, and daily jousting, all leading to the crowning of a single jousting champion.
But first, came the archery competition.
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Mors, Ashara, Alyssa, and Malora walked out of the tourney grounds with little Prince Daeron skipping between them, bursting with excitement as he recounted every moment of the match.
"And then Lord Tatos Blacky shot that arrow from so far! He beat Uncle Ulrick and that small lord from the North—how could he shoot from so far and so hard!" Daeron exclaimed, words tumbling out to the amusement of his parents.
Ashara chuckled softly, as Alyssa covered her mouth to hide her laughter and Malora failed entirely to suppress hers.
"Daeron, dear," Ashara corrected between giggles, "his name was Lord Tytos Blackwood. The Blackwoods are famous for their archery. He was using a weirwood bow—they're very powerful. And that 'small lord' you mentioned was Lord Howland Reed. He may be small, but he's not to be underestimated, all right?"
Daeron nodded earnestly. "Got it, Mother!"
Ashara and Mors exchanged knowing looks—he'd forget within the hour.
Malora's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Too bad Idrin isn't here. I'm certain he could've given 'Blacky' a run for first place."
Mors sighed in amusement while Ashara and Alyssa both laughed.
Just then, a voice called from behind them.
"King Mors, a moment, if you please."
They turned—and nearly had to shield their eyes. The approaching figures shimmered with gold: King Jaime Lannister, his sister-wife Queen Cersei, and their uncle Prince Tygett Lannister.
"King Jaime," Mors greeted cordially, "did you enjoy the competition?"
Jaime inclined his head. "It was a fine display. Unfortunately, Lord Gerold Serrett placed only fifth, but seeing Lord Tytos Blackwood's skill made it worthwhile."
Cersei sighed dramatically, her tone bored. "I honestly don't understand what you men find so entertaining about these contests."
Tygett gave her a patient glance. "It's a display of skill, niece. To triumph in such competition is worthy of celebration. As queen, it would do you well to support your king."
Cersei turned to him with a sweet smile—one that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course, uncle. I'll do anything for Jaime."
Tygett met her gaze evenly, and for a moment the air between them tightened. There was something unspoken there—old resentment or simple weariness—but it passed as quickly as it came.
Then her gaze slid toward Mors, her tone shifting into polite warmth tinged with condescension.
"King Mors—it's been a long time. How have you been?"
Ashara, Malora, and Alyssa all caught the strange, almost pitying look Cersei gave Mors, their eyes flicking to one another in silent confusion.
"I've been very well, Queen Cersei," Mors replied smoothly. "Dorne—and my wives—treat me more than kindly."
"Of course they do…" she murmured, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then, looping her arm possessively through Jaime's, she smiled again. "Jaime and I are doing wonderfully too. We simply wanted to greet you and your…" Her gaze drifted across the women beside Mors—lingering far too long on Ashara—before she cleared her throat. "Your wives."
Jaime, noticing the growing awkwardness, stepped in quickly. "King Mors, I've long admired your reputation as a fighter. If it's not too much, it would be my honor to spar with you before the tourney ends."
Mors smiled graciously. "Of course, King Jaime. Perhaps on the final day."
'An opening,' Mors thought. 'A chance to see what sort of man he truly is—and whether he might be brought into the fold.'
"Excellent!" Jaime said brightly. "In that case, we won't impose any longer."
After a polite exchange of nods, the Lannisters departed.
Once they were gone, Daeron tugged at Ashara's sleeve, brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"Mother, if that yellow lady smells something bad, why doesn't she just clean her nose?"
Malora burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Yes, she did look like she was sniffing something foul, didn't she?"
Ashara and Alyssa both chuckled, while even Mors couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, that might be the case, Daeron," he said gently. "Just… maybe don't say things like that when other people are around, all right?"
Daeron nodded brightly. "Okay, Father!"
Mors and Ashara exchanged a small, knowing smirk.
Malora grinned. "All right, let's go eat before the tilts start."
And with that, they left the gardens for the feast tents, laughter trailing behind them as the banners of Highgarden swayed in the warm breeze.
But before they could get far, a commotion drew their attention. Two large men were wrestling in the grass, rolling and grappling while a circle of onlookers cheered them on. Normally, Mors might have ignored it—except he recognized two very distinct voices in the crowd.
Mors and Ashara exchanged a knowing look and approached.
"Hit that big lunk! Poke his eyes!" Allyria Dayne shouted gleefully.
"Come on, Walder! Don't let the North look bad—kick his groin! Stomp on it!" Lyanna Stark yelled beside her, laughing so hard she nearly doubled over.
Lynesse Hightower tried, and failed, to stifle her laughter behind her hand.
"Lyanna, stop encouraging them!" Benjen groaned, trying—and failing—to rein her in.
The scuffle continued until the surrounding crowd noticed royalty approaching. People quickly stepped back, bowing and clearing a path as Mors, Ashara, Alyssa, and Malora drew near.
Mors sighed, amused. "Ria, Princess Lyanna—I see you're enjoying yourselves."
Allyria brightened immediately upon seeing them. "Sister!" she cried, running to hug Ashara.
Lyanna grinned. "Hey, Mors!"
Lynesse dipped her head gracefully. "King Mors."
Mors smiled in return before turning to Benjen—the most reliable of the bunch. "Benjen, what happened here?"
Benjen rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. "Well… it's like this, King Mors…"
The "two men" turned out to be boys—both about fourteen. One was Sandor Clegane, heir to Clegane Keep and younger brother of the late Gregor Clegane. He'd spotted Allyria, made a few… ill-advised remarks, and tried to get handsy before Benjen stepped in. That, in turn, offended Sandor—who wasn't used to being challenged. Which was all it took for Walder, another hulking squire about the same age—and one who practically worshipped Benjen—to jump in and challenge Sandor outright. And now here they were, rolling through the dirt in front of half the Reach.
Mors raised an eyebrow and looked at Allyria with mild amusement. "So, Ria—causing trouble with your looks wherever you go? I guess it's in your blood."
Allyria huffed, crossing her arms. "Hmph! I have no time for these bumbling oafs. I was going to challenge him myself, but Walder beat me to it."
Ashara and Alyssa both laughed while Mors only shook his head, though his gaze lingered on Sandor Clegane—curious. Hopefully, the death of his monstrous brother had freed him from that shadow. At least this one bore no scars—outside or in, from what Mors could tell.
Guards arrived to separate the two boys. Both were panting, bruised, and glaring daggers at each other.
Sandor spat on the ground. "You little cunt—can't fight unless you sucker-punch, can you?"
Walder snorted, wiping blood from his lip. "Aye? Funny talk from the one picking teeth out of the grass." He spat again—this time right next to Sandor's boots.
Before it could reignite, Mors stepped forward. "Enough," he said calmly but firmly. "You've both proven your strength. Let's leave it at that."
Sandor started to protest—"Oy, what are—" but froze as a hand landed on his shoulder. Cold sweat prickled down his neck when he turned and realized who was behind him.
"My—my apologies, Your Grace," he stammered. "I lost control of my temper."
Mors withdrew his hand. "No harm done. But be careful next time. You may not have known it, but Benjen is a prince of the North—brother to King Brandon."
Sandor's eyes widened in alarm.
Mors continued evenly. "And this," he said, gesturing to Allyria, "is Lady Allyria Dayne, younger sister to my wife."
Recognition—and dread—crossed Sandor's face.
Mors softened his tone. "It's all right. No one was truly hurt. Just be mindful in the future —watch your words as much as your hands."
Sandor nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Thank you." He turned to the group—Benjen, Lyanna, Allyria, and Walder. "And… I'm sorry."
Allyria clicked her toungue. "Tsk, that ended too easily."
Ashara swatted the back of her sister's head. "Ria!"
Allyria sighed. "All right, all right."
Alyssa grinned. "How about we go eat? The tilts must have started by now."
Mors nodded. "A fine idea. Let's go."
They began walking toward the feast tents—but halfway there, Mors slowed. His smile faded as his expression hardened, eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd.
Alyssa noticed first. "Mors? What is it?"
The others turned, watching as his gaze swept the busy courtyard.
Mors exhaled through his nose. "Hmm… Barristan."
Ser Barristan Selmy appeared almost instantly at his side. "Your Grace?"
Mors's voice dropped low. "Get the Eclipse Guard. I want eyes on anyone watching me. I just felt something—malicious intent. Not the usual kind."
Barristan's expression shifted, alarm flickering beneath his composure. He nodded once, sharply, and vanished into the crowd.
Mors turned back to the women, the warmth returning to his tone but not his eyes. "It's nothing. Let's go. Though…" His gaze swept over them. "Make sure you keep your guards close at all times."
The laughter from earlier had faded, replaced by a faint tension that followed them as they walked on. The golden banners of Highgarden still danced in the sunlight—but somewhere beyond the music and cheer, something darker had begun to stir.
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By the time Mors and his company returned to the tourney grounds, the joust was already well underway. The crowd's cheers rose like waves, and upon the field, Prince Oberyn Martell was flamboyantly dismantling Ser Olyvar Oakheart.
Oberyn's showmanship was in full display—his crimson cloak trailing behind him, his hair loose, and most notably, his head bare. He was jousting without a helm, a reckless choice that made the Reachlords whisper and the Dornish grin.
Mors could only shake his head.
Benjen Stark, watching wide-eyed, leaned toward him. "King Mors, why doesn't Prince Oberyn wear a helmet? If he gets hit, I'm afraid—"
Manfrey Martell answered before Mors could, shaking his head with a faint smile. "Well, Prince Benjen, Oberyn is the freest of us all. He lives fast, loves fast—and if he ever dies, he says he wants it fast too."
Lyanna Stark, who had been listening, turned sharply toward the field just in time to see Oberyn strike. His lance shattered against Ser Olyvar's shield, unhorsing the Reach knight cleanly. Lyanna's eyes widened, her voice full of awe. "That's… an amazing way to live."
Mors smiled faintly, though there was a touch of bitterness in it. "Right. Amazing indeed," he said quietly, exhaling through his nose.
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By day's end, the field had been reduced to sixteen contenders:
Prince Oberyn Martell, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord Quenton Roxton, Ser Balon Swann, Lord Monford Velaryon, Lord Lymond Lychester, Lord Jorah Mormont, Lord Gregor Forrester, Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Preston Greenfield, Prince Tygett Lannister, Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Mandon Moore, and Ser Lyn Corbray.
From the stands, Mors caught the heated glare Lord Monford Velaryon cast toward him—and then toward Oberyn. Hatred simmered behind the man's eyes, old and personal. The brother of Lucerys Velaryon clearly hadn't forgotten the war—or who had killed him.
'Blood begets blood,' Mors thought, his expression unreadable. 'Well… good luck with that.'
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The following day brought the melee, a brutal spectacle that saw the knights of the Mountain and Vale reach the final round. Lord Yohn Royce faced Ser Lyn Corbray, whose Valyrian steel blade gleamed cruelly under the sun. Corbray's attempt to blind Yohn with sand drew loud jeers from the crowd, and moments later, Royce tackled him into the dirt, knocking him cold with a single headbutt. The crowd erupted in cheers.
That afternoon, the joust resumed with renewed intensity. Among the many tilts, one stood out sharply to Mors—Prince Oberyn versus Lord Monford Velaryon.
Monford's strikes were savage, vengeful. It was clear he was trying to kill Oberyn, not just defeat him. But Oberyn only laughed—taunting Monford, mocking his dead brother's "fishblood courage." The crowd gasped at the audacity, but when the lances broke, it was Oberyn who stood victorious.
The quarterfinals were set:
Prince Oberyn Martell, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord Quenton Roxton, Ser Balon Swann, Lord Jorah Mormont, and Prince Tygett Lannister.
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By the third morning, the field was narrowed to legends.
Prince Oberyn faced Lord Randyll Tarly in a match of speed versus brute control. Oberyn's fluid precision frustrated Tarly's measured strength until, with a final dazzling strike, he sent the lord reeling.
Ser Arthur Dayne met Ser Barristan Selmy next—a duel so clean and fierce that time itself seemed to hold its breath. They broke lance after lance until Barristan, ever the honorable knight, yielded with a respectful nod.
Ser Balon Swann overwhelmed Lord Quenton Roxton with sheer aggression, earning thunderous cheers despite besting a lord of the Reach.
And Prince Tygett Lannister narrowly defeated Lord Jorah Mormont in a bout that was more chess than clash—two measured, powerful men trading precision blows until Tygett edged ahead by points.
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That afternoon, beneath the gleaming sun, the semifinals and final began.
Ser Arthur Dayne faced Prince Oberyn Martell first. The match was dangerous—Oberyn's unhelmed daring pushing the crowd to the edge of panic more than once. In the end, Arthur's control prevailed; he unhorsed Oberyn with a clean, brutal strike that sent the Red Viper tumbling.
Mors's breath caught for an instant—but when Oberyn rose laughing and clasped Arthur's hand, lifting both their arms for the crowd, relief washed through the stands. The cheers were deafening.
The next tilt saw Prince Tygett Lannister defeat Ser Balon Swann after a grueling exchange that left both men battered but standing.
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After a brief recess, King Mace rose, his voice booming over the stands.
"Good, good! We've reached the final match of the Tourney of Highgarden!" he cried, beaming with pride. "Ser Arthur Dayne—Sword of the Morning—champion of Dorne and sworn sword to King Mors Martell! And Prince Tygett Lannister—uncle to King Jaime, pride of the Rock! Let the final begin!"
The stands fell silent.
At one end of the field sat Ser Arthur Dayne, his pale armor gleaming beneath the afternoon light. Across from him, Prince Tygett Lannister, radiant in crimson and gold, the lion rampant blazing across his shield.
The horns sounded.
First pass—a thunder of hooves, a clash of sunlight and steel. Lances shattered; both knights remained seated.
Second pass—Tygett's strike hit true, splintering against Arthur's shoulder. The crowd gasped, but Dayne steadied his horse and lowered his visor once more.
Third pass.
Time slowed. The roar faded to a hum. Arthur lowered his lance a heartbeat earlier than his foe, every motion clean, inevitable.
Impact.
Tygett's shield exploded under the strike. The Lannister was lifted clean from his saddle and thrown into the grass, a spray of dust swirling around his fallen form.
For a moment, all was still. Then the field erupted—cheers, horns, flowers thrown from the stands.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, reined in his horse, lowering his lance in salute. Tygett rose, shaken but proud, and returned the gesture.
The applause redoubled.
The champion of Highgarden had been crowned.
Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, guided his white stallion toward the Royal Gallery, the victor's laurels resting across his arm. The crowd hushed, a sea of faces and color waiting to see whom the champion would honor as Queen of Love and Beauty.
Arthur raised his lance, the sunlight gleaming against the polished steel as he turned toward the royal dais—then lowered it, pointing directly at his sister.
"Lady Allyria Dayne."
Allyria blinked, startled, then pointed at herself. "Me?"
Arthur's lips curved into a rare smile. "That's right, sister."
The crowd cheered as Allyria rolled her eyes in mock exasperation before accepting the laurel. She stepped forward gracefully, placing it upon her own head to a chorus of applause and laughter. The banners of Dorne fluttered proudly in the wind.
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"Good job, Arthur," Mors said with a faint grin. "I'm glad you finally took a tourney—though I suppose it helps that I wasn't competing. And your choice for Queen of Love and Beauty… well played."
Arthur smirked, letting the jab pass. "I thought it best to keep peace between my sisters."
Mors chuckled as their eyes drifted toward the gallery, where Ashara was teasing Allyria while Lyanna and Lynesse laughed beside them. Not far off, Robert Baratheon and Benjen Stark—apparently bound by some unspoken alliance—were edging closer, each clearly searching for an excuse to join the laughter. Robert's gaze kept wandering to Lyanna; Benjen's, to Allyria. It was almost endearing. Almost.
Mors exhaled, his tone light but deliberate. "Arthur, I'll leave them to you. I've a spar to settle with King Jaime—and a conversation I've been meaning to have."
Arthur hesitated, clearly wanting to go with him, but knowing his duty lay in keeping the others safe. At last, he nodded. "Go win it, Mors."
Mors's grin was brief. He turned and left the tourney grounds with Ser Barristan Selmy at his side, heading toward the western field where the Westerland pavilions stood—where his promised bout with King Jaime Lannister awaited, along with the real discussion he intended to begin.
They passed through the outer grounds, the laughter and music of Highgarden fading behind them. Then, without warning, the air changed.
The sounds of the festival—the chatter, the songs, the distant cheers—seemed to dim, as if swallowed by something unseen.
Mors slowed. His instincts screamed.
He turned his head slightly, voice tightening. "Barristan… we're surrounded. Brace yourself."
Then the air tore—
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Dozens of crossbow bolts sliced through the dusk from every direction, their steel tips catching the last traces of fading light as time seemed to slow.