Auraborne: The Sun of Dorne

'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. Longer than anyone expected. Even the septons were starting to call him "blessed of the Seven" in hushed tones, while the maesters 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 jammed a USB stick 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 a punchline to a joke only he got. He hadn't even watched the whole thing. One season. Maybe two if I add the random episodes I watched while bored. That was it. And barely that. He was more of a casual viewer—just enough to follow conversations and catch spoilers.

'Wasn't there a book as well?' Mors sighed, while rubbing his temples.

'I really hope this world is based off the show.'

The first time he figured it out, he almost convinced himself he was hallucinating. The names, the setting, the banners—familiar in that weird, déjà vu kind of way. Like walking into a dream you didn't know you'd forgotten. Then came the kicker. One night, as Doran discussed a potential match for Elia, it all clicked.

His sister. Elia Martell.

His gut clenched.

He remembered. Sort of.

Not vividly, but enough to make him feel sick.

'She died.'

No… she was murdered. Her children too. Something horrific. He didn't see the episode—he hadn't watched past the first damn season—but he'd heard about it. Bar talk. Meme culture. "Man, the Red Viper's sister got done dirty." Something about a sissy prince—Rhaegar?—dumping her for some northern girl and triggering a damn civil war.

And her kids—her kids—were butchered. That part stuck. That part hurt.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles ached.

'No. Not again.'

He wouldn't let that happen.

He couldn't.

Elia was kind. Warm. Smarter than the court gave her credit for. She didn't deserve to be a footnote in someone else's tragedy. She was alive now. Laughing in the gardens. Helping sew banners. Dreaming about a future she didn't know would be torn from her.

'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—bits of half-spoiled trivia. He knew Rhaegar was involved. 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.

Mors looked down at his hands.

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.

And something else.

Something... new.

It started after the fall. 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—especially against Manfrey.

Oberyn was surprised. Mors had always been gifted, but his growth had followed a natural, if slow, arc. This… was different. He lost more than he won against them, mostly because of his age, but this felt like a sudden improvement leap.

"You're hiding something, little brother," Oberyn had said, panting through a smile tinged with suspicion. "You fight like one of mother's personal guards."

Mors blinked. He hadn't even been thinking—just moving.

"I don't know, Oberyn," he'd replied. "I just feel more focused since the accident. Once I understand it, 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 wait for fate to fold around him like a script.

He had time. He had warning.

He had power.

But he was too young to have influence.

'That needs to change. I need to have a voice.'

He would change this story—even if it killed him, again.

"Not her. Not Oberyn. Not anyone I can still save."