"Valar Morghulis."
…
…
And then the world seemed to stop.
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Agony speared into his back. Something impossibly sharp bit through him, pain surging like fire and ice at once. His senses exploded outward—time slowing to a crawl. He saw the cup tumbling from his hand in slow motion, smelled the acrid, fishy stench seeping from the wound.
'Poison,' he realized instantly. 'Assassin.'
Before the thought fully formed, his body reacted. His right elbow drove back with monstrous force.
The blow landed with bone-crushing force, sending the attacker sprawling ten paces across the hall. The impact echoed through the chamber as Mors whirled, aura flaring outward like a storm wind, his hair and cloak whipping back, violet eyes burning with an unnatural light—like a dragon staring down prey.
He reached behind him and gripped the blade still lodged shallowly in his back. A Valyrian steel dagger, its edge slick with black poison. Somehow, it had pierced only an inch deep.
Rage surged.
"YOU!" Mors roared, striding forward, every step like a hammerbeat. In a blink, he stood over the fallen figure—the old servant he had passed cleaning the hallway earlier.
The man rose despite his shattered jaw, hunched, then straightened unnaturally. With a deliberate motion, he peeled away his own face.
A Faceless Man.
"The gift failed?" the assassin rasped in a thick Braavosi accent, his broken jaw twisting the words.
Mors, gripping the Valyrian dagger, brought it down in a savage arc—so fast it would have split any ordinary man in two. The Faceless Man twisted aside at the last instant, narrowly escaping death, though the edge still carved a deep line across his side, spilling blood. A plain steel dagger seemed to bloom into his hand, raised and poised to strike… yet he held back, his movements taut with hesitation.
His gaze locked on Mors—wide with confusion, as though peering past flesh and blood into something hidden beneath. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, that confusion shifted into something almost reverent.
"No… not failed," he whispered. "You are chosen… one of the Many Faces."
The assassin lowered his guard completely.
Mors snarled and plunged the Valyrian dagger into his chest.
The Faceless Man didn't even flinch. Blood bubbled at his lips as he forced out a whisper:
"No mistake… the coin is yours… Valar… Dohaeris."
His hand slipped from his sleeve, an iron coin tumbling free as he collapsed lifeless to the floor. In that instant, the state Mors had been holding shattered, and he dropped as well— drained to the marrow, every ounce of strength spent. For all his power, he now lay as defenseless as a child.
'What was that? That's never happened before…' Mors thought, mind still reeling as he lay there.
People rushed in—Jeremy at the front, with Doran, Ashara, Alyssa, and Areo close behind.
"Mors!" Ashara dropped to his side, voice breaking, hands trembling as she touched his back. "You're hurt! Gods, you're hurt!"
Alyssa was already working, steady hands binding, sniffing the wound. Her eyes widened. "Poison."
Jeremy bent to the corpse, pale. "…Faceless Man."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Doran's face hardened. "A Faceless Man, in Sunspear…" Then, snapping into command: "Jeremy, Areo — find everyone who was near this hall. Quietly. No word of this escapes." He then turned to Mors worried.
Mors took it all in with solemn eyes but forced a faint smile.
"Just… give me a moment. I'm drained—tired, more than I'd like to admit. But it's all right. You know I'm different. My body is fighting whatever was on that dagger—I can feel it. If anything, this poison will only make me stronger."
They were speechless at this, staring at him in stunned disbelief.
But as he voiced this, his mind raced.
'This is a weakness I never accounted for. Nothing has ever broken my aura before, not truly—and yet here I am, cut and poisoned. If a single Valyrian dagger can do this, then I'm not as untouchable as I thought. I need to adapt. Build an immunity… small, controlled doses, until my body is resistant. Oberyn would know the herbs and venoms. Yes, I'll speak with him.
And that state… what was it? An overdrive? For a moment everything was sharpened, heightened beyond anything I've known—and then it was gone, leaving me like this… drained to the bone.'
Mors rose slowly with Ashara and Alyssa steadying him. His body felt heavy, every step an effort, and he knew the moment he touched a bed he'd collapse into it. Yet even through the weariness, he could already feel the slow pull of recovery in his veins. He would mend… though for the next few days, he would remain weakened.
Jeremy's voice cracked with disbelief as his eyes fixed on the Valyrian dagger. "You were stabbed by a poisoned Valyrian dagger… and you live? You're even walking?"
Mors bent to retrieve the coin and dagger, straightening with effort. He met Jeremy's and Doran's stares, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Hobbling, more like. But yes… it seems so."
Jeremy and Doran exchanged a glance, their faces caught between disbelief and awe.
Finally, Doran spoke after rubbing his head in exasperation, "For now… Let's escort Mors to his room. The Maestar should be on his way. Jeremy and Qerrin, I'll trouble you and your men to guard Mors's room. I'll have my men guard the perimeter."
Jeremy nodded solemnly, "Understood."
Ashara and Alyssa tightened their grip on him as they led him away. Ashara's eyes were fierce, burning even through her tears. "This is exactly what I feared, Mors. I—" Her voice broke, but she clung tighter as if she could shield him with her embrace.
Later, after Maester Torvian treated him, Mors let the milk of the poppy drag him into a fitful, uneasy sleep. As his mind drifted, he kept berating himself for lowering his guard, for allowing the strike to land at all. Just before the dark took him fully, he felt the warmth of Ashara settle beside him—her presence the last tether holding him against the void.
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The next morning, Mors awoke to find a figure seated by the window, sipping tea. Blinking in surprise, he glanced to his side—Ashara still slept soundly—then whispered, "Mother? What are you doing here?"
It was still early, the sky outside just beginning to pale, but Loreza gave no answer. Mors rose quietly, moving with some difficulty, and lowered himself into the chair beside her. They sat together in silence, the hush of dawn wrapping around them, until at last she set her cup down with deliberate care.
"Someone tried to kill you," she said at last, her voice low but steady. Then, softer, her composure cracking just a little: "Kill my boy…"
Mors nodded, voice low, eyes fixed ahead. "…Yes. Again."
"They sent a Faceless Man," Loreza continued, her tone heavy. "Do you know what that means?"
Mors hesitated, then gave a half-smile. "That they really wanted me dead?"
Her look silenced any attempt at humor.
"…And," he added more soberly, "that whoever ordered it is either very rich, very powerful… or both."
She didn't reply immediately, lost in thought, before giving a faint nod. "Correct. Do you have any ideas?"
Mors frowned, mind turning. "There are a few possibilities. I've… been busy lately."
"That you have," Loreza said quietly. "Let's hear them."
He sighed. "Some of the Free Cities may not like what I've done—securing the Stepstones, collecting tolls. But they have more to lose if my order collapses. Only Myr has real motive, but they've been in too much chaos to act. Low probability."
Loreza hummed, then nodded. "Who else?"
"Braavos, perhaps—the Iron Bank," Mors said after a pause. "They meddle when it suits them, but they've no reason to move against me. Not them."
Loreza listened in silence.
"Tywin… and Rhaegar."
At that, Loreza turned sharply, frowning. "…What about them?"
"You know of my… ability to sense strong emotions," Mors said carefully.
Her brows furrowed, but she nodded.
"I felt it—both Tywin and Rhaegar wanted the king to die. Perhaps they were merely fishing in troubled waters, or perhaps they engineered the crisis themselves. But they did not want Aerys rescued. Especially Rhaegar."
Loreza's eyes widened, urging him to continue.
"Maybe there was an arrangement—marriage, perhaps. Tywin seemed motivated by practicality, his grudge with the king set aside. But Rhaegar…" Mors's gaze darkened. "There is something wrong with him. Something dark. He worries me."
"That's why you wanted Elia kept from him," Loreza said with certainty. "You think it was Rhaegar?"
Mors hesitated. "Nothing is certain. But the emotions he projects toward me are extreme—as though I'm his nemesis. Jealous of me, possessive of what I have. It's… strange. I can feel his desire to kill me, and to be me. That, combined with his status, influence, and wealth… I can't think of anyone more likely." He paused. "The Citadel? Maybe. But I think they've been defanged for now, and I've given them no reason to be so direct."
Loreza studied him deeply before turning her gaze back out the window. A long silence.
"Are you going to kill him?"
Mors considered. "…It may be worth thinking about."
Loreza sighed and rose, steadying herself with her cane. Mors immediately moved to help.
She looked up at him. "Bend down a bit—I can't reach."
He leaned, and she kissed his brow. Warmth spread through him, softening the moment.
"You are a great lord now," Loreza said, pride in her voice despite her frailty. "A prince in your own right. Be careful. And remember—though you wear Targaryen features, you are Martell. You always have a home here, and the strength of Dorne behind you. Never forget: Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Whatever path you take, see it through with conviction."
She started for the door, but paused. "By the way—the corpse of the Faceless Man is gone. Be careful." Then she left, maids guiding her thin, weakened frame. Mors watched her go, an ominous heaviness settling in his chest. It felt like a farewell.
He sighed and turned back to the bed. "Are you going to keep pretending to sleep, my moon?"
Ashara lowered the blanket from her face, smirking faintly. "No pretending—I was simply resting my eyes. I didn't want to intrude. It was…"
"Heavy," Mors finished, sitting beside her. "But I think Mother knew you'd wake, or already were. This was her way of showing you that you belong here—that you're one of her people now."
Ashara smiled, kissed him softly, then drew back with worry in her eyes. "Do you think… it was Rhaegar? Do you think more Faceless Men will come?"
"Rhaegar… it's possible," Mors admitted. "But not certain. Regardless, we must be careful."
They held each other in silence until Mors, after hesitation, spoke again. "As for the Faceless Men—I don't think they'll come after me again. Something about what he said before he died… it felt different." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin.
It was unremarkable at first glance—dull iron, small, worn smooth with age. Yet its weight seemed far greater than its size. One side bore the bearded face of a man, expression unreadable—stern one moment, mocking the next as the light shifted. The other was etched with curling Braavosi letters, nearly worn away.
"This coin," Mors said softly, "might be useful one day."
Ashara's eyes widened. "I saw that yesterday. What is it?"
He mulled his answer. "Consider it a token… a pass. With it, one can reach the Faceless Men. It offers… protection, of a sort. It's obscure, but that's what I recall."
Ashara nodded slowly, wide-eyed with awe and unease then she rested her head on his shoulder, silent for a moment. The morning light edged its way into the room, painting the walls with gold. The storm of the night before seemed distant, yet its shadow lingered in both their hearts.
"Mors," she murmured, "whatever comes, promise me you won't carry it all alone."
He looked at her, violet eyes softening at her plea. "I promise… though you know me too well. I'll try." He kissed her hair, letting the moment anchor him.
But as Ashara held him tighter, Mors's thoughts wandered back to the vanished corpse, to the attempt on his life.
'If they come after Ashara, or anyone else close to me…'
A flash of ruthlessness burned in his eyes. Resolve hardened in his chest. He would not allow complacency to be the thing that killed him or those around him.
'I need to be more proactive. I can't wait for the tourney or for events to simply play out. I need to move first.'
His mind spun with plans, with names, with the steps he would need to take—until Ashara's voice cut through his thoughts, hesitant at first.
"…By the way," she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "you kept poking me all night. If you really want to…"
Her teasing lilt, her mischief, broke through the steel wall he had just built around himself. He looked at her then, truly looked, into the dark, alluring eyes that glimmered with playfulness… and something deeper, more dangerous than any assassin's blade.
He swallowed hard.
And just like that, his determination crumbled, the storm within him scattered. For all his aura, his strength, his ruthless resolve—Ashara Dayne could undo him with a single look. And in that moment, he wouldn't have had it any other way, because without meaning to, she had become his anchor—the one who kept him grounded, and in doing so, made him stronger.