MORS

"Aye. I tell you, my father was there. Saw the whole city burnt to a crisp. Swear on me mom's grave." said Tryston, putting his hand on his heart. He puffed out a cloud of smoke, passing the pipe to the slim boy next to him.

"By the Warrior's cock if that fat lout saw it, he couldn't even stomach a virgin's bloody sheets." Joren scoffed, the biggest of the gathering, with dirty brown hair. His skin was pink from harsh sunburn.

The piped passed to Lomas, with an eyebrow as thick as a spear, who commented, "When I was in Myr, they had these-…" He exhaled the smoke in Mors' face. He fanned it aside. Lomas, you whoreson. "-… dragons, I say, huge ones too. They flew in the sky and did these tricks. Some marriage or whatnot, lord was celebrating that he was shaggin' his sisters. Both of them."

Mors got the pipe next and Tryston tossed the die on the table, but they came up as one and two and he got wroth. "Imagine that, fuckin' your sister," Mors said as he inhaled, and the hot smoke filled his lungs. He leaned back in his crusty, wooden seat, closing his eyes. He hated this tavern, the Green Snake, because its seats hurt his back.

"Hopefully not your sister, Lord Poppy, not much for a sandy beach." said Lomas, who put two coins in the center, Lord Poppy. Mors hated the nickname. "Now you still playin', eh?"

Say something witty, Lord Poppy. Yet he merely threw the two coins in without a word, and Tryston began, "Now, the younger sister I would plough, not Sundry Serra." His older sister, Serra, had Greyscale nearly six years ago, and scarred most of her face. At this point, Mors could not remember if she had been attractive before she had it. Bertha was his younger sister, and she, in to the contrived jealousy of Serra, was considered a land beauty by the bards who came to the feasts.

"She is what? Only ten?" spat Joren, sucking on the pipe. Thirteen you idiot, and not even bled. If what his mother says is true, at least. "Besides, she'll be too soft. Want a real woman, not a fish." He shakes his head and Tryston snorts.

"And you get real women, eh?" said Tryston. Mors leaned back into his chair once more and closed his eyes. Why do you not talk?

Why does it matter?

Mors could only sigh. He thought of his sister Serra first and it made him sad. Why her of all people? She was still as prude as an attractive girl, though. If one trait was made clear about her, it was her hot temper, especially on Mors. Recently, she had come down upon him about his poppy use. It is an issue Mors, you know this.

The thought of poppy made him scratch his arm. You idiot, Mors cursed, they are right there! He gripped the chair's armrests instead. She was right, and he knew it.

About three years ago, during Mors' sixteenth nameday, his father held a tourney in celebration and invited nearly all the lords in eastern Dorne, with the expectation of Mors winning against the children of the red-faced well lords. Mors, if he was to give himself credit, was not horrid at jousting. He could ride, and if you asked Ser Borys, perhaps even well, and during the practices he hit his targets against fat Pitty and Borys' lackwit brother Grendyl. By the Mother's tits, he even unhorsed his father.

Yet you failed, Mors. On the first tilt, he faced against the pudgy Tywon Arath, who could barely hold a lance. And when they rode against each other, Tywon's lance knicked him on the shoulder and Mors tumbled off his horse. He landed upon his arm and was drug by the stirrup till his horse stopped. Tywon was declared the winner and his father retreated to his quarters in shame.

The court healer Marq, for his family did not have the money to afford a real Maester of the Citadel, declared that Mors had shattered his shoulder upon being carried into the Sandship, their hideous atrocity of a castle. And as what every diligent physician does, he prescribed Mors milk of the poppy to ease the pain. It was a feeling Mors never felt before, and even now he could still imagine his first experience of drinking the stuff.

His already burgeoning use of nomos and sour wine probably did not help him prevent liking the drink. Even now, he cursed at his nomos use. Bloody Stranger, you know smoking this makes you think this way.

When Marq refused Mors more milk after he caught on Mors' attempts at feigning greater injury, he began to steal the stuff from his personal quarters. It was his sister Serra who first found out, when Mors was lounging in the sun unresponsive to her calls.

"Mors! Mors! You potbelly fool, wake up!" She shook him with no reaction from Mors. He did not know what happened after, as his sister never told him, but he appeared in his room. Although his sister scolded him heavily, she never did tell his father. "Mors, father will send you to the Wall." chastised Serra, when he had finally awoken to her on his bedside.

"So?" Mors slurred, "I-" She slapped him. You idiot, thought Mors retrospectively, you should never say that. She yelled at him a storm and Mors, instead of fighting, relented and agreed with mumbles. "Serra-... it will not happen again, I swear it."

"It better not." She huffed, before laying a kiss on his forehead, "You are my brother, and you are the heir. Seven and ten on the next moon, Mors, you are no longer a little lordling."

You never asked to be born first. "I did not choose to be heir, sister." Her face turned sour, but her scaled left side remained motionless.

"Neither did I choose to look like a crusty hag at twenty, brother," responded Serra in tort, "Think I have an enjoyable time, eh?" She always did this, brought up her greyscale and it always made Mors lost for words.

When she departed, she made Mors swear to better himself and 'look to the Father for help'. And in all honesty, Mors did try to get better, he really did. But when the shakes and sweats began the fourth day in, and he felt as if his stomach would wretch itself out of his throat, he went back to his old habits. Mors snuck into Marq's solar once again and drunk the poppies, resting back into euphoric sleep.

His dreams, though, became wild as his poppy use increased. At first, it was pleasant memories and long-forgotten ambitions, such as impressing his father or vivid coalitions of colors, shapes, and exotic fantasies. Others complained about the terror of the dreams, but to Mors it was an experience which he craved for. Under the scolding disappointment of his father, and how his mother doted upon his younger brother Edwyle and seemingly ignored him, he began to like the dreams more than his real life.

It scared him when the dreams became wicked and Mors attempted to toss the habit finally. They began to twist into nightmares and fever dreams, men with no faces dancing in blood, or his teeth dried and rotten from an orange sun. It terrified him, and he still remembers screaming awake and the guards hurrying to his room like obedient servants.

That was when his father finally confronted him, and like what Serra said, he threatened him furiously, "You pitiful shit!" his father Waltyr screamed, throwing Mors down upon the dried ground of the courtyard, "I should send your worthless ass to the Wall! Are you listening to me?" Mors never did respond, and like the weak-willed urchin he was, cowered back.

No wonder none respect you, for you cannot even stand tall to your father.

His father sacked him on the head, "You will not destroy everything I have a worked for. You will ruin our house! Everything!" His lord father continued, lecturing him on his family line, all the sweat he poured to achieving what he did, the work which he put in everyday as lord- it was the endless spiel, which Mors had heard time and time again. You hypocrite, the only achievement you've had was bending your knee like a whore to every lord with a bigger army.

He knew about the missing poppy and hoped it was some greedy servant. But his own son? How great the dishonor to him and his wife, how it spat upon his very ancestors. Mors was worse than the Stranger Himself, and he would bring chaos and destruction. His shame for failing in being a knight was enough, but a poppy-eater was a new low. Ser Anders, one of his father's guards, whipped Mors and gave him welts and cuts all down his back. It was punishment for dishonoring the family.

Yet his father did not send him to the Wall that day, nor the two other times it occurred- once he was found upon the throne room convulsing, the other in the gardens by a servant who could not rouse Mors up. Every time either Anders or Grendyl whipped him to a pulp on his father's orders. Every time his mother refused to see him and continued knitting. Every time he abided by his parent's demands and swore off the poppy.

He could not drop the habit though, and in usually a week's time he was draining the milk like sour wine once again.

"Your roll, Mors." Tryston called and as instinct Mors rolled and retreated into his thoughts. Tryston yelped in surprise, must have been a good roll. Mors did not look. The people around him, his friends, chatted and laughed and jibbed at each other like any other their age. But why not him? Because you'd rather the milk than anything else, isn't that right?

He scratched his arm again, feeling the all too familiar sweats. By the Gods, he needed a drink. He tried to flag one of the tavern wenches, a fat woman nearly sixty, to order yet she did not see him. Or did she ignore him? Mors could not tell, nor did he care. Sour wine is not the drink you need, Mors.

Mors stood up and left as quickly as he could, trying as hard as he could not to make it obvious of his flight. The men at the table were taken by short surprised then continued their talk. They know where you are going, Mors, this is not the first time, now is it? This is the last time, Mors assured him, though he knew deep down that it would not be.

Snaking and weaving through the crowded Green Viper was no easy task, pushing through the drunk sailors and wanton whores. The tavern reeked of sweat and alcohol, its floors was dirt covered by cheap carpets and spreads. He passed by the tavernkeep, a one-eye man with three missing teeth, who gave his typical 'yullo', but did not look up from his dish cleaning.

Once Mors made it outside, the hot Dornish sun hit him hard. Sun-caked huts and shops surrounded him, its sandstone colored almost like vomit. The street was quiet with only a few vendors out, many of them silk and metal merchants from beyond the sea. He hurried along the streets, shifting through alleys and intersections quickly and with ease. Mors stayed off the main roads, for they carried the only guards, and he did not want them reporting his whereabouts to his father.

This place, Planky Town, was not much a town in honesty, but rather a hamlet of sun-dried merchants and exiles from up north. Everything was made of sandstone and mud, with only the buildings closest to his family's keep having the pleasure to be made from wood. The streets were unorganized, confusing, and turned in every possible direction. It was easy for a newcomer to be lost, even when trying their hardest to stay on the main roads, and Planky Town was well known for its disappearing individuals time and time again.

Mors was lucky though, for even the most desperate urchins would not dare touch him. They knew he was a lord, even if a he was a Lord Poppy, and they were surprisingly smart in pursuing lesser game. That is not to say Mors never had close encounters, but at ten and nine and over six feet, most preferred to stay away. The sheathed sword on his hip also helped. Probably the only reason you are not dead yet Mors, do you honestly believe you impose these hermits?

The Sandship came into view, his family's ancestral seat, founded by bloody Morgan Martell himself. To his father and, he supposed, to him too, the Sandship was the testament of House Martell's persistence and greatness. This is not the High Tower or Storm's End, father. What his father did not realize though, was the Sandship looked more like a tumorous growth than a real castle. It was spotted by the years of weather abuse and was shaped like a sideways pear, sharing the same color as every other mud home in city.

The way up to the Sandship was to the only true imposing feature of the castle, as the stairs snaked back and forth, making the Sandship look like a grand fortress overlooking the metropolis below. The walls surrounding the castle were nearly crumbling yet still held, made of sand-colored brick and waving the golden spear of Martell on every tower. Mors put up his hood and began the climb up.

The stairs were not terribly long, but the hot sun always made the climb unbearable. Sweat beat down his brow, and Mors could not tell if it was because of his craving or this dreaded heat. A mixture of both, he presumed.

His family, to pay their tribute to the Bloodroyal, rented out the courtyard to the more affluent merchants, who used it as a venue to sell their better goods away from the pisspoor customers of Planky Town. Most of them were Andal stock, traders from the Cape Wraith, Oldtown, and others who made their rounds from the bountiful eastern part of the world to the rural western half. So, when Mors finally reached the top, he stood before another marketplace of lords and burghers, who sold exotic goods like nomos, silks, and eastern gold.

Staying hidden through Planky Town was easy, but in the courtyard of his very family's keep? Mors stayed in the center, walking through the tented stalls with his head shielded. The fat merchants payed no heed, for Mors' leather tunic and simple trousers made him look more like a servant than anyone with money. And even if they did know him, they cared not. They all heard the stories of Lord Waltyr and his son Lord Poppy and bringing up familial issues was bad for their business.

He first passed by a carpet merchant with a jagged nose and a huge belly, then a slaver from Essos with great blue hair. Mors did not pass him quickly enough, for he bellowed out, "Oi sirrah! Come here, come here, you look like a man who could need a new wife, eh?" He held out his hands towards the chained girl next to him, naked and as brown as the mud.

"No." He shouted back, not stopping. You idiot, why did you speak? The slaver continues to call out but adverted his attention to the next man who passed. Merely paranoia, Mors, see? No one heard you. Mors signed and thanked the gods.

"Ah, Lord Mors! I thought that was you!" That was Ser Borys. Damnations Mors, why did you speak? At least it was not Grendyl.

"Come on, come on now, Lord Mors, you cannot stride away forever." He continued to say, and Mors stopped, turning about. Borys stood a tad shorter than him, his head shaved clean with a decent gut. "Ahah, there we are. How is the Young Spear?" said Borys, giving a toothy grin with yellow teeth.

Mors put on his best smile, "Ser Borys! Good its you, I thought at first your brother got me." He laughed and Borys followed it. Damned nomos, he could not tell if that was even funny.

"Sadly no, Lord Mors, you do not have the honor of facing my dear brother, merely lowly me." said Borys mockingly, "Have you been lickin' honey again, Lord Mors? Your eyes are as red as Grendyl's pimples."

There we are. If there was one skill Mors felt he had mastered, it was the art of speaking nonsense, or as they said in Qarth, shit of the bull. "Y-yes, Ser Borys, sorry, I was- with friends, we were playing a few dice games."

"Dice games and pipes?" Borys wagged his finger, "You know the Seven prohibit such vices, yes yes?"

"Merely with friends, ser, celebrating the rule of lord father." said Mors. Borys laughed aloud. The easiest of the game is done.

"And where are you off to now, eh?"

Markets, quarters, family, healer, septon… Septon. "The septon, ser, h-he wanted me to help him studies of the waves today, says he has found a relationship between the crabs and.. the tide." Mors tried to sound as straight as he could.

"Oh? He is still on about that nonsense?" Borys spat to the side, huffing, "Bloody idiot will drown himself someday."

"Aye, well, he thinks now the crabs can manipulate the tides, as they leave and enter the waves it changes the ocean's level of water." Did that sound convincing? Mors prayed it did.

Borys hummed, "Hrm… I mean, it could… what a weird man, that septon."

"Normal men do not become priests, ser."

"Aye, normal men fuck and shit, don't they? Imagine that, a life without fuckin'." Borys chuckled to himself, "Well tell the septon g'den for me, if you could. I should be comin' for confessional soon."

"Oh? Sinful now, Ser Borys?"

"Merely cautious, Lord Mors, cautious 'tis all." Borys' jovial expression dimmed, and he huffed, "Lord, if you require anything, please do ask. You know your mother is worried up to the seven hells about you."

Mother, thinking of Mors? Stop trying to flatter me, Borys. "Mother does not think of me much I think, ser." He quickly added, "Anyhow, f-forgive me ser, if you would…"

"Ah, yes, g'day Lord Mors. Please, stay safe if you could." Borys gave a short bow, shuffling off. Mors continued through the stalls.

Mors decided against using the front gate for obvious reasons, and so resorted through the back in the gardens. If you could call them gardens, by the Seven. They were more like shrubs, as his family could not afford the water to actively have any sort of true, elaborate garden, and preferred a few trees and small roses. Quaint, though, and while not fancy it still was a break from the mud-stained walls of the keep.

Mors climbed the walls, since the lower walls were barely five feet in height, and he made his way through the greenery. He passed by the dead wierwood tree, a huge monstrosity, which decayed in gross tumors. As a child, though, he swore the tree grew, its hideous growths expanding, but mother insisted otherwise. He also passed the small pond, which was typically dry, but occasionally in the summer seasons the rains came and gave it some form of life. Sadly, there had not been rain in a while.

Mors hated the hot summers, though he should not complain much. He has not had any experience with winter, if you count a short time as a babe. A hot summer is better than a cold winter then, eh? Still though, a break from the damned sun would be a pleasant change.

No one ever guarded the back door, and Mors slipped in casually and without a hitch. A few servants saw him, but they cared not, and went on their business. He made sure to dodge the main hall, of course, and stuck to the cramped stairwells of the north end. None of the servants ever cleaned since this part was never used, and Mors coughed in its dusty aroma.

Mors always went through the Old Sept, which was rarely used because of its rotting wood. In the small sept was a collection of old mosaics, conveniently on his way towards his destination, and he could spend the time to take a peak. If Borys was to be believed, the mosaics were made during Morgan's time himself, and he was most likely right. They featured Lord Morgan and his victory over the two petty kings, Wade and Shell, and the battlefield on which he slew both kings in single combat. Or so the story goes, at least.

They were also made from the remains of the two kings' keeps and artwork, so it had errors in made ways. First, Morgan looked more like a squid than an actual Westerosi. The background changed colors time to time, and it switch scenes very abruptly. But the collage always peaked Mors interest, and he liked to stare at it while on nomos.

Finally, he made it to his floor, and looking both ways, slowly snuck to his quarters. He luckily lived close to the north side, despite his family living in newer south side, but it made escapades like this easy, if Mors could say so. His quarters were reasonably large, with a bed, table and chair, bookshelf, and a few other commodities. It did lack any balcony and only having a pitiful excuse of a window with old, stained glass. The room was also short, compared to the others on the south end, and it made the room feel smaller than it truly was.

The servants expected Mors to hide his more personal belongings in the typical locations- be it under the bed, buried in a closest, or hidden in some forgotten corner. But Mors considered himself smart, and was his father ever to look himself? Most likely not, therefore he only had to outsmart the servants, who were servants for a reason. A brick on the far end of the room, opposite of his bed, was loose, and it became the perfect spot for his collection.

He removed the brick carefully, as to not break it- as breaking it would make it seemingly more noticeable- and this task was quite hard. The Sandship was not a particularly old castle, but it could have been made of more sturdy material than sandstone. Though everything in this castle looked as if it would fall out, and so made this spot a particularly good evasion against prying eyes. When removed, the brick exposed a small slit of room, spacious enough to old small bottles and other knick-knacks, more specifically his pipes and nomos.

He cursed as he picked up the first bottle, for which there were three in total, and realized it was empty. He was a lazy man, and always left the empty glassware in the hole. The second, too, was also empty. Am I this empty? Bloody Hells.

Luckily for him, the third was not, about half-filled, and Mors moved to examine in the paltry light of the window. He made sure to hide the hole with the brick, as he always feared to forget when he drunk the milk, and the servants would sadly become wiser once they stumbled upon the hidey-hole. In the clear bottle, the milk was an opaque white, without any reflection or transparency. The sight nearly made Mors drool.

The itching then became more bothersome, and Mors stumbled to open the bottle. Damn it you idiot, open it. He tugged upon the cork till it came free with a 'pop!', and without a second thought Mors drained it.

There we are… sweet, yes, finally, by the Gods…

He stumbled away from the window and hid the bottle underneath his straw began to overtake him, the sweet, sweet umbrella of sleep. The itching went away, the worry, the problems… He hoped for no dreams but why should he care? Enjoyment is what he wanted, not to think. Wait…

The door, you idiot, it is not even latched.

He pulled himself up as fast as he could. Quickly now, before it… Struggling, he shambled at the feet, making his way to the door. With each step the poppy took hold of him, and it went from a casual step to gripping for dear life upon the walls. You can make it, you can make it, you can make it, you can make it… He went as quickly as he could, the fires of determination flaring through him. He would make it, he was sure of it, by the Gods he would make it.

Nearly there, yes, nearly there, nearly there, three more steps, two, you…

That was, until, Mors fell face first upon the stone floor and he drifted into the sweet embrace of the poppy dreams.

Men burned by the very sun, their bones melting to liquids of clarion white. The children next to them cried but made no noise.

Tanned women walked on the sands, ripping snakes and sucking its venom raw. They danced in crude motions and exposed themselves to the melting fathers and wailing children

The sky was dark, then light, then dark, then light, until the clouds blocked even the color and shades.

Water then enveloped all, the men drowning in thick silt, and great turtles carried the children ashore.

Mors felt his teeth fell from his mouth as the women began to stroke his body from all sides, his face falling off. He tried to scream but he could not.

[Please be as critical as possible, I want to better my writing skills in any way possible. Please point out any grammatical errors and/or spelling errors as well.

Illidanavd- Thank you for your comment. Yes, I plan on doing the entirety of Nymeria's conquests, from her time in Sothoryos to her finally uniting Dorne years later.]