Early 270 AC
The fall was not from a cliff or a tower, but from the back of a galloping sand-steed.
They had been racing across the dunes beyond the Water Gardens. Oberyn's laughter echoed in the wind, loud and wild, like he always was when they slipped away from their guards. Mors leaned forward on the saddle, widening his lead on his cousin, Manfrey, while pushing his mount to catch up to Oberyn. His mount caught an unseen dip in the earth and stumbled. Mors was thrown.
There was a crack.
He didn't get up.
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They carried him back limp and bleeding, sand in his hair, his eyes closed. The guards didn't meet each other's eyes. Maesters worked in silence. Elia paced the corridor outside, her hands clenched while Manfrey stayed silent in a corner. Doran stayed in the room, his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Mors's chest.
By nightfall, they weren't sure if the boy would live. Elia didn't sleep that night. Neither did Doran. Oberyn didn't come inside at all. He trained with Manfrey until they collapsed from exhaustion, then rose and trained again.
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On the third day, Doran sat beside the bed, his head bowed.
The air was thick with silence. Mors had been breathing—barely—but unresponsive. A low candle flickered beside him, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Elia lay asleep with her head resting on the edge of the bed, exhaustion etched into every line of her body.
Then, Mors stirred.
"You're awake," Doran said, voice low and taut, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment. He leaned in slightly, eyes wide, watching for another sign.
Mors blinked. His mouth felt like sand.
"…What… where?"
Doran straightened, startled, then eased down closer again. "How do you feel? Can you move? Can you feel your body?"
Mors winced slightly, his voice rough. "Feels… heavy. Everything… heavy." His eyes settled on Doran. "…You… Doran? Yes. Doran."
A slight smile broke across Doran's face. Relief washed through him.
"Here, drink some water," he said, lifting the cup carefully and helping him sip.
When Mors finished, Doran let out the breath he'd been holding for days. "I'll get Oberyn. He's been in the training yard all day. He blames himself."
"Why?" Mors rasped.
Doran paused. "He challenged you to the race. Since then, he's done nothing but train. He hasn't forgiven himself." A beat passed. "Mother arrived from Sunspear yesterday. She's been—very worried."
Mors's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features.
"Do you remember anything?" Doran asked gently.
Mors fell silent for a moment. Then, slowly, "The race… yes. I remember now." He glanced down beside him, seeing Elia still asleep at his side. He looked back to Doran. "Elia… right?"
"Yes," Doran said softly. "Your older sister. She's been here since the first day. We've all taken shifts. But she wouldn't leave."
Mors reached out weakly, brushing his fingers through Elia's hair. He looked back toward the ceiling, fingers twitching as if searching for something lost. "I'm remembering… tell them I'm fine."
Doran's face tightened. "…You nearly died."
"Did I?"
There was no drama in the question, just curiosity.
Doran rose to leave, but paused at the door. He glanced back once more, the weight of days heavy in his eyes.
"We thought you wouldn't wake."
And then he slipped out.
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Later that day, after Mors had woken from another nap, Oberyn came in with Manfrey covered in sweat and dust. His shirt was soaked through, hands blistered from overtraining. He didn't speak at first. Just looked at Mors as if unsure he was real.
Then he punched Mors lightly in the arm.
"You reckless fool," Oberyn muttered.
"That's rich coming from you. Besides, I recall that it was you who challenged me," Mors croaked.
"I didn't think you'd actually try to win."
Mors gave a weak smile. "Neither did I."
Oberyn sat and dropped his head into his hands. Manfrey remained standing close, his expression tight. "I haven't slept. Haven't stopped training either. I thought I killed you."
"I've seen—and felt—the result firsthand," Manfrey muttered with a wry smile.
"Oberyn, You didn't," Mors said. "And if I'd died, it wouldn't have been your fault."
"Tell that to my head," Oberyn muttered.
"Then tell your head to rest."
Though still troubled, Oberyn Chuckled, "You sound like Doran. Why does it suddenly feel like you're the older brother?"
Mors shrugged. "Do I…maybe the fall knocked something loose."
Oberyn looked at him again, more carefully this time. "I'm just glad you're safe."
"Me too. I thought you were dead when you hit the ground," Manfrey offered.
Mors held their gaze. "That race didn't count."
Oberyn snorted. "Fair enough." He paused. "We will look into a rematch after you get better. Just be ready to lose again."
"I won't." Mors replied with a grimaced smile.
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By the next morning, Mors was walking slowly through the gardens. He paused at the fountains more often. Not to admire them—he was listening. Feeling.
Something was different. His senses felt more alive, more active. He started paying attention to everything around him. To how the wind moved. To how people walked. To the way water curved when it hit stone. There was a rhythm to the world he hadn't noticed before, and now it sang to him like it always had and he had just never known how to hear it.
His instructors noticed first. He no longer interrupted lessons. He no longer rushed through drills. He'd always been sharp, but now his focus was unshakable. Almost like he suddenly matured.
When the Septa asked about the Rhoynish wars, he recited dates and alliances with precision she didn't expect. He traced out the politics of Nymeria's voyage in chalk before she could turn the page. His mind was share, too sharp almost. He coult tell the difference, because one day he remembered being one way and the next different.
When the master-at-arms told him to sit this one out, he refused. When instructed to strike, Mors didn't charge. He waited. One breath. Two. Watched. Then moved.
And landed it.
"Again," the master-at-arms had said, this time with narrowed eyes.
And again, Mors waited, read the weight of his opponent's front foot, the drop in his shoulder—and struck before the blow ever came.
After a couple of days, word began to spread. The youngest son of Princess Loreza had changed. Some said the fall knocked sense into him. Others whispered darker things. Elia slapped one of her handmaidens for repeating such talk.
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"You're not as loud," Elia said that night as they sat in the courtyard, watching the sunset spill gold across the stone. Her hand was in his. She passed him a fig but didn't take one for herself. "I should be happy about it… but I'm not sure what to make of it."
Mors's gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful. "I'm not sure either. Maybe I'm just tired… still recovering."
"Maybe," she said softly. "You used to laugh first, stumble second, then laugh again. Now… now you think first."
"Really?" he glanced at her. "I hadn't noticed. Huh. That's… weird."
He turned back to the sky. "I've been thinking a lot lately. Things that never made sense… suddenly do."
Elia tilted her head slightly, concern in her eyes. "Is your head still hurting? If there's anything—anything at all—you need to talk about, don't hold it in. Come to me. Always."
She reached up and stroked his hair gently, pressing a kiss to his brow.
"I… I will, sister," Mors murmured.
Elia smiled, content for now. "Good."
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The next afternoon, his mother summoned him.
Princess Loreza stood at the edge of the balcony, her gaze fixed on the gardens below. Her robes hung like armor, her posture regal, though the lines of her face were drawn with weariness.
"You frightened us," she said without turning.
"I… I didn't mean to," Mors replied, standing tall despite being intimidated by his mother. "It was an accident. I don't ever want to go through that again—or put any of you through it."
Loreza turned slowly and studied him. "Good. At least you learned your lesson. You were very fortunate… I—" She stopped herself, not wanting to continue that line of thought, but she shifted course instead.
"Doran tells me you've changed," she said at last. "That you've come back with more… maturity to you."
"I suppose I have," Mors said.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, a flicker of warmth beneath the scrutiny. "People don't change like this. Not at ten. Don't try to be more than you have to, Mors. Childhood doesn't return once it's spent."
Mors met her gaze, steady. "I'll try. But most children don't fall like I did—and stand again."
Loreza held his eyes a moment longer, then nodded and stepped forward. She pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Good. Perhaps the fall knocked some sense into you."
"It did more than that."
She stepped back, one hand lingering on his shoulder. "Your father would be proud," she said quietly. "He always said dragon's blood burns too hot—made many of them reckless. Maybe now it burns more steadily in you."
Mors didn't answer, but the words rooted themselves deeper than he expected.