Two Weeks Later
'The sea never shuts up.'
Mors sat on the palace terrace, staring past Sunspear's golden rooftops into the roiling blue. Waves lapped against the coast in lazy rhythm, like the world itself was breathing just to annoy him. Peaceful. Serene… Mocking.
He'd been back on his feet for weeks now. Far sooner than anyone expected. Even the septons were starting to call him "blessed of the Seven" in hushed tones, while the maester observed him with unusual curiosity; the constant checks had been chipping away at his patience until he overruled them and forced them to stop their "checkups".
Blessed. Sure. Let's call it that.
"I won't be able to marry anymore," he muttered with a mock shudder, remembering how anime protagonists always overreacted to this sort of thing.
'Right, I won't be able to watch anime anymore.'
He pressed his fingers to his temple and let out a slow breath. The memories were back now. All of them. Like someone crammed them into his skull and downloaded someone else's life. Except that someone was him? It was him, right? A past version maybe… this was as confusing as it was ridiculous. Regardless, he didn't just remember who he was—he remembered where he was.
'This is Westeros.'
'Game of Thrones. That was the name, right?'
'A show. A damn TV show. Fiction. Except this feels awfully real, doesn't it?' he thought, clenching his fist.
He gave a humorless chuckle. "I died and got reincarnated into premium cable."
That name felt ridiculous now, echoing in his head like the punchline to a joke only he understood. He hadn't even watched the whole thing—just one season. Maybe two, if he counted the random episodes he'd caught while bored. That was it. And barely that. He'd always been more of a casual viewer—just enough to follow conversations and recognize spoilers.
'Wasn't there a book as well?' Mors sighed, while rubbing his temples.
'I really hope this world is based off the show.'
Mors threw up his hands, exasperated. "How the hell does this even happen?!"
He snatched up a stone and hurled it as far as he could into the sea, the splash distant, unsatisfying.
The days since the accident had been a blur—a convoluted mess of half-formed thoughts and strange clarity. It felt like he was seeing the world through an adult's eyes, but still reacting with the emotions of a ten-year-old. Everything was… off. Fortunately, everyone chalked up his dazed confusion to the fall. A head injury. Trauma. Recovery.
It wasn't until yesterday that his mind finally began to settle.
That's when he started to put it together. At first, he almost convinced himself he was hallucinating—seeing patterns where there were none. The names. The places. The banners. They tugged at his memory in that eerie, déjà vu kind of way. Like walking into a dream you didn't know you'd forgotten.
And then came the kicker.
Last night, as Doran sat discussing potential matches for Elia, casually naming lords and heirs from across the realm... everything clicked.
His sister. Elia Martell.
He had heard that name before—and not from his ten years of memories in this world. It came from before. From a conversation, maybe. Some "expert" rambling about the series. Her fate had struck a nerve even then.
His gut clenched.
He remembered. Not clearly, but enough to feel sick.
She died.
No—she was murdered. Her children too. Something horrific. He hadn't seen the episode—he'd barely made it through the first season—but the story had spread like wildfire. Bar talk. Meme culture. "Man, the Red Viper's sister got done dirty."
Something about a silver-haired prince—Rhaegar?—dumping her for some northern girl, sparking a war.
And her kids… her children were butchered.
That part stuck. That part hurt.
Mors clenched his fists until his knuckles throbbed.
Intellectually, he understood he was no longer the same person he had once been. But the memories—the warmth of Elia's hand in his, her quiet voice at his bedside, the way she watched over him with worry and affection—those weren't so easy to dismiss. They were real. Too real.
So imagining that fate…
'No. I can't allow that to happen.'
He wouldn't let it happen.
He couldn't.
Despite her frailty, Elia was kind. Warm. Sharper than most gave her credit for. She saw what others missed—quiet details, subtle shifts in tone. And she always reached out first, even when she had the most to lose.
She didn't deserve to be reduced to a footnote in someone else's tragedy.
She was alive now—laughing in the gardens, stitching banners with careful fingers, speaking of futures she didn't yet know would be stolen.
And Mors would see that future protected.
'Not if I can help it.'
But how long did he have?
She was already nearing marriageable age, and this was the bloody medieval era. Girls were betrothed before their moon blood stopped surprising them. A political match could happen any day. What if the offer came soon? What if the crown reached out?
What if it was already happening behind closed doors?
'Gods. I should've watched more of that damn show.'
Everything felt like smoke in his fingers—fragments of half-spoiled trivia. He knew Rhaegar was involved.
'Actually, I remember meeting him five years ago. And the King Aerys… Yeah, that was some crazy behind his eyes, no doubt.'
Knew Elia died. Knew Oberyn went on a vengeance mission. He remembered some smug coworker spoiling it, laughing over wings and beer.
"He monologues too long and gets his skull popped like a grape. Classic."
'Right. Oberyn dies too.'
He could still see the bastard grinning while sparring, spinning that damn spear like he was showing off for a lover.
Oberyn couldn't die like that. Not in some glorious failure. Not because he got cocky trying to avenge Elia. Not if Mors could stop it.
But he had no roadmap. Just scraps.
He hurled another stone into the ocean.
Then he looked down at his hands. 'This isn't normal. A child shouldn't be this strong.'
This was something else.
Something... different.
It had started after the accident. That fall should have crippled him. By all rights, he should have been broken, bent, or buried. But within days, he was walking again. Running. Sparring.
Winning.
'Healing. Faster than I should. Too fast.'
His body didn't just recover. It got better. Stronger. Leaner. Quicker.
And it wasn't just the healing. His reflexes had sharpened. His awareness, too. He could predict strikes before they came, adjust mid-motion, move like the ground was part of him.
'Enhanced instincts. Like I've been training for years.'
He remembered sparring with Oberyn and Manfrey last week. The moment their spears clashed, he had felt it—a current, a beat, like music only he could hear.
He won those matches—caught Oberyn by surprise and edged out a victory, then outlasted Manfrey. He lost the bouts that followed, but he'd never come that close before.
Oberyn was surprised. Mors had always been gifted, but his growth had followed a steady, if unremarkable, path—natural, even slow at times. But this… this was different. He still lost more than he won, mostly due to age and reach, but something had changed. The way he moved, the precision of his strikes—it felt like he'd taken a leap forward, skipping steps no ten-year-old should.
"You've been holding out on us, little brother," Oberyn had said, panting through a smile tinged with suspicion. "Since when were your attacks so ruthless?"
Mors had blinked, genuinely confused. He hadn't been thinking—just moving.
"I don't know, Oberyn," he'd replied. "Ever since the accident, I just… feel more focused. Openings stand out clearer. Like I see them before they happen. Once I figure it out, I'll let you know."
Oberyn had only nodded. He didn't press. But Mors could see it—the worry, buried under charm and bravado. His brother always noticed more than he let on.
But the truth was he didn't know himself… the limits of whatever power he carried were unclear. Only that it was growing. Slowly. Silently. Like a fire stoked by every heartbeat.
'It feels... familiar. But I can't place it. Like something from another show. A game, maybe? Something I saw once and forgot.'
It was like trying to recall a dream you never quite woke up from. Every time he tried to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers.
He didn't know what to call it, but it was in him—woven through his muscles and bones like light made solid. It felt like armor under the skin. Like something was always humming beneath his chest, ready to answer the call.
He was stronger. Faster. Thinking more clearly and quicker, even. And maybe—just maybe—he could grow powerful enough to stop what was coming.
Because it was coming.
He didn't know the timeline, but he felt it in his gut. Elia's marriage. Rhaegar's betrayal. Robert's Rebellion. The war. The fire. The dragons. Zombies—or whatever those things were. That was in the opening. Had to mean something.
Oh, I absolutely can't forget…
"The Mountain."
Seven hells.
He didn't even know how old Gregor Clegane was right now. Was he already out there, torturing servants and killing for sport? Would he end up Elia's executioner again if nothing changed?
'No. Not again.'
He wouldn't sit still. Wouldn't let fate fold around him like a script already written.
He had time. He had warning.
He had power—or at least, something growing inside him. And he had been born into a noble house with influence.
But he was still too young to wield it.
'That needs to change. I need a voice.'
He would change this story.
Even if it killed him—again.
"Not her. Not Oberyn. Not anyone I can still save."