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.
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.
On the third day, Doran sat beside the bed, head bowed. The air was heavy with stillness. Mors had been breathing—just barely—but unresponsive. A candle flickered low on the table beside him. Elia slept with her head resting on the bed, exhaustion etched into her posture.
Then, suddenly, Mors stirred.
"You're awake," Doran said, voice taut and low, like he didn't trust it yet, not wanting to wake Elia.
Mors blinked. His mouth was dry. "Feels... heavy."
Doran let out a breath he'd been holding for days. "I'll get Oberyn. He hasn't left the training yard. He blames himself."
Mors tried to lift his head. "Why?"
"He was the one who challenged you to the race," Doran said. "He's been training himself sick since. Father arrived from Sunspear yesterday. He's been worried."
Mors looked beside him, seeing Elia sleeping, then back at Doran.
"Elia?"
"She's been here since the first day—we'd take shifts," Doran replied.
Mors weakly ran his fingers through Elia's hair. Then looked past Doran to the ceiling. His fingers twitched. "Tell everyone I'm fine."
"You nearly died."
"Did I?"
Doran rose to leave, but hesitated by the door. "We thought you wouldn't wake…"
Then he was gone.
Later that day, 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."
"You sound like Doran."
Mors shrugged. "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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"You're not as loud," Elia said one night as they sat watching the sunset spill over the courtyard. She handed him a fig, but didn't eat one herself.
"Maybe I'm just tired."
"No," she said. "You used to laugh first. Now you think first."
Mors stared at the horizon. "I had a lot of time to think."
Elia tilted her head. "Is your head still hurting?"
"Not the way you mean."
"You're scaring Oberyn, you know."
"I know. But I think he's more scared of what it means if I didn't change."
One afternoon, his mother summoned him. Princess Loreza, who had gained some weight in recent years and looked a bit worn, stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking the gardens, robes draped like armor, face drawn.
"You frightened us," she said without turning.
"I frightened myself," Mors replied, standing straight.
Loreza turned and studied him. "Doran tells me you've changed."
"I suppose I have."
"People don't change like this. Not at ten."
Mors met her eyes with a hint of warmth. "Maybe they don't fall like I did."
The princess stared at him a while longer. Nodded, then pulled him into a hug. "Good. Perhaps the fall knocked some sense into you."
"It did more than that."
"Your father would be proud," Loreza said. "He always said dragon's blood ran too hot, made many of them reckless. Maybe now it burns more steadily within you."
Mors didn't answer. But the words sat with him longer than he expected.
In the weeks that followed, the palace adjusted. Servants stopped whispering. Guards stopped watching him as closely. His mother returned to Sunspear, satisfied that the boy had recovered.
Only Oberyn kept looking at him strangely, like he was waiting for the old version to return.
He never did.
That night, alone in bed, Mors stared at the ceiling again. The smooth stone shimmered faintly in moonlight. Beneath his skin, he could feel it—something quiet and vast, humming under the surface.
'The world of Game of Thrones.'
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
'There is much to learn and do...'
Like a pebble in a pond, a small ripple began to form.