Stepstones, Three Days Later
The morning tide was high when the Dornish fleet slipped out of Sunspear's harbor, sails taut in the warm sea breeze. The flagship, The Dornish Sun, led the formation, its orange banners snapping above the gilded sun-and-spear sigil.
Their strength split almost at once. Five hundred men sailed east with Prince Lewyn Martell toward the Stepstones, while the other half—under Ser Daven Quarr—turned north for Ghaston Grey. Their task: keep pressure on House Yronwood with half the fleet, while the rest struck deeper waters.
The voyage east was swift and merciless. Stray pirate skiffs and longships crossed their path, each dispatched with ruthless precision. None escaped; those who tried left only burning wreckage behind.
By night, under the cover of the moonless sky, Mors's Eclipse would slip away from the main fleet to execute their mission of scouting for suitable location for their future outpost and to eliminate straggling pirates if found and manageable, though Mors already had one island in mind.
Oberyn and Manfrey were aboard, along with Jeremy, Bedwyck, and the full Eclipse Guard. Tolen Vyr's regiment joined them, bringing the total to thirty—counting Oberyn's and Manfrey's personal guards.
By dawn, they would rendezvous with Lewyn on The Dornish Sun. But for now, they were shadows in the dark water.
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It was on the third night of scouting that an island took shape on the horizon—jagged cliffs rising against the pale starlight. Three stone towers loomed over a harbor shaped in a natural defensive arc, the mounts for great crossbows still in place, though broken. A place made by nature to be a fortress.
"This is it," Mors said quietly, just loud enough for those near to hear. "Redmask."
He stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the silhouette. To him, the place was more than stone—it was where the last pirate war had ended, and where he had suffered his first loss in command. Ser Salor Rym's face surfaced unbidden, a wound that had never fully healed.
"Since the last time I saw it," Mors continued, "I've thought of its value. Even in disrepair, it's formidable—the arc of the harbor, the towers. It could be the keystone of an outpost."
The crew shifted at the weight in his tone. Behind him, Oberyn's grin faded into something sharper. Jeremy's hand rested on his sword hilt, eyes sweeping the shore.
"I see smoke," Jeremy said finally. "Not much. Doesn't look heavily manned—but there are groups moving."
Tolen Vyr studied the coastline. "Plenty of ground to cover. Split up?"
Bedwyck stepped closer, waiting for orders. "What's your command, my prince?"
Mors's reply came crisp over the salt wind. "We're here to scout—so let's scout. We'll dock in that grotto." He pointed toward a shadowed mouth in the cliff. "Tolen, take the eastern side. We'll sweep the west. Avoid the fortress for now. Meet back at the grotto."
His gaze swept over them, hard as steel. "Avoid contact… but if we're seen—no survivors."
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Western Shore – Redmask Island
Mors's group moved in silence through scrub and stone, their boots sinking into the sandy soil. The faint thread of smoke ahead guided them, carried on the salty breeze. Before long, muffled laughter and the ring of steel drifted toward them.
They crept to the edge of a rise and peered down into a crude pirate camp—forty or so men scattered among rough canvas tents. A central fire burned low, ringed by drunken figures passing bottles. Off to one side, two pirates sparred lazily until one collapsed into the dust to a chorus of jeers.
The Dornish crouched low, listening.
"…three groups now," one pirate slurred, waving his bottle for emphasis. "If those bastard on the other side weren't so stubborn, we could take the fort from Corven's crew. They may have over sixty, but they'd back down, right? We're about forty, plus that thirty on the east side, that's…" He frowned, counting on his fingers. "About sixty. See? Even fight."
"You idiot," his companion snorted. "That's more or less eighty. Means we're stronger."
Mors's expression didn't change, but the numbers lodged firmly in his mind. Forty here. Thirty to the east. Sixty or more in the fort.
He signaled the others to withdraw. They slipped away along a narrow, twisting path toward the rendezvous.
They were halfway back when a shape lurched into view—a pirate, swaying on unsteady legs as he fumbled with his belt, having just finished relieving himself behind a boulder. His head lifted, eyes widening.
Before he could shout, Tahlor Sand was on him. The dagger flashed once, punching through the man's throat. The pirate sagged, choking, but Tahlor caught him before he hit the ground. Not a sound escaped.
Without a word, the body was dragged into the brush and buried beneath loose scrub.
For a long moment, the group exchanged glances. That had been close—too close.
Mors's voice was low, but carried enough steel to cut through the night air. "Let's move."
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Rendezvous – Hidden Grotto, Redmask Island
Tolen's party was already in place when Mors's group emerged from the brush. Their report matched Mors's intelligence almost exactly—forty in the west, thirty on the eastern shore, and sixty or more inside the fort. The only difference was that the eastern pirates were far more alert than the drunken rabble his own group had observed.
Jeremy broke the silence first. "How should we proceed?"
Mors considered the numbers. "We take the western camp first—quietly. Surprise attack with bows. They're the looser formation, easier to break. Then we hit the eastern group the same way, if we can. Once both are gone, we set traps on one approach to the fort, make enough noise to draw them out… and cut them down in the open."
A cruel smirk crept over Idrin's face. "Maybe with fire? Enough ale lying around to make some fire flasks."
Eyes turned toward him—then toward Mors. The idea had teeth.
Tolen's brow furrowed slightly. "My prince, I'd follow you to the ends of the deep North… but thirty against a hundred and thirty?"
"Agreed," Mors said. "The numbers are bad. But surprise, positioning, and discipline will close that gap. We move fast, before anyone notices their missing men. And if we can make the fire work—it becomes much easier."
Oberyn's smile returned, bright and dangerous. "I like it. This is my kind of battle. Let's not keep them waiting."
Manfrey broke in, his tone low but firm. "We'll need to move quickly. If we drag our feet with the first group, we might as well announce what's going on here."
"Agreed." Mors swept the circle with his gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle. "Then we're settled. Ready your bows—two volleys, then we close."
One by one, the men nodded. Leather creaked, bowstrings were tested, and the quiet rhythm of preparation spread through the ranks.
The night felt heavier now. The sea whispered against the distant cliffs, as if holding its breath for the slaughter to come.
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Western Side – Redmask Island
They moved like shadows through the scrub, keeping low, the faint moonlight tracing silver along the edges of their cloaks and steel. The smell of woodsmoke and cheap wine grew stronger with every step, drifting from the pirate camp ahead.
Mors raised a fist, halting the column. "Positions," he whispered.
Oberyn crouched beside him, peering through the brush. "Sloppy bastards. They've left their flank wide open."
"That's what happens when your second-in-command is a barrel of rum," Jeremy murmured, already unhooking the bow from his back.
Qerrin Toland returned from a low crawl, his voice pitched just above the rustle of leaves. "Three on watch… though two are too drunk to stand straight."
Mors's eyes narrowed. "First volley—those three drop before they know we're here. Second volley, hit the ones near the fire. Third volley, take as many as you can. After that, we close."
Bedwyck shifted beside him. "On your word, my prince."
The camp came into sharper focus as the men spread into a shallow crescent. Pirates lounged around a central firepit, drinking, gambling, and bickering. Two men traded lazy sword swings in a half-hearted spar. The sentries were the only ones standing—barely.
Mors let the moment stretch, feeling the cool night air fill his lungs. "Loose."
The first volley sang through the darkness—thwip, thwip, thwip. Three bodies crumpled soundlessly. Before the first hit the dirt, the second volley punched into chests and throats. The camp erupted—shouts, overturned mugs, scrambling feet.
A third volley followed, dropping more bodies into the dust.
Mors was already moving. His replacement swept out in a glitter of steel, spearing a pirate mid-turn. To his left, Oberyn's blade flashed in the firelight, cutting down a man before he could raise his sword.
"Don't let them run!" Manfrey barked, driving his spear through a fleeing back.
The skirmish was over almost before it began. A handful broke for the treeline, but arrows cut them down before they made it ten paces.
Breathing steady and unscathed, Mors stepped over a body and scanned the camp. "Clear?"
Jeremy nodded once—then, without ceremony, drove his spear into the corpse at his feet. "Clear."
Oberyn wiped his blade on a dead man's cloak. "One down." He glanced toward the distant rise where the fort loomed. "Two to go."
Mors turned to Idrin. "Start gathering their ale and oil. We'll need it."
"And the bodies?" Tolen asked.
"Pile them near the edge of the camp," Mors said. "Out of sight. When the fort comes looking… they'll find nothing but smoke."
The men moved quickly now, the earlier banter gone. The air stank of blood and iron, but the work was clean, efficient. Within minutes, they were melting back into the shadows, heading east for their next prey.
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Eastern Side – Redmask Island
The eastern shore was still, the sea breaking gently against the sand. No drunken laughter here—only the soft crackle of a dying fire and the faint rhythm of snoring from the tents.
"Most of them are asleep," Tahlor whispered, peering through the brush.
Oberyn murmured. "Almost unfair."
"Nothing's unfair when they'd gut us without hesitation," Qerrin said, already unhooking his bow.
Mors studied the camp. The numbers matched Tolen's report—thirty men, only two sentries pacing by the shoreline. The rest lay sprawled in their tents or on bedrolls in the open, the firelight casting faint shadows over unguarded weapons.
"First volley—sentries," Mors said quietly. "Second volley—anyone outside the tents. After that, we finish it with steel before the rest even wake."
Oberyn smirked. "Quick and quiet. I like it."
The order came like a breath. "Loose."
Two bowstrings thrummed, and the sentries folded silently into the sand. The second volley followed instantly, cutting down the handful dozing in the open. By the time the last arrow struck, Mors and the others were already moving.
Spear thrust clean through the first man who stumbled from a tent, his eyes still bleary with sleep. Jeremy slit another's throat before he could cry out. Manfrey drove his spear down into a blanket-covered form, silencing the movement beneath.
Some woke in panic, reaching for weapons they'd never have time to use. The men moved through the camp with cold efficiency—no wasted motion, no mercy.
When it was done, only the wind and waves remained. The fire still burned low, casting long shadows over the bodies.
Jeremy scanned the tents and gave a short nod. "Clear."
Oberyn glanced toward the distant rise where the fortress loomed. "That's two. Now for the hard part."
Mors turned to Tolen. "Same as before—hide the bodies, strip the supplies. When the fort sends scouts, they'll see nothing but an empty shore."
They worked quickly, dragging the corpses to a hollow behind the dunes, dousing the fire until only smoke drifted skyward. In minutes, it was as though the camp had never existed.
Mors looked up at the dark silhouette of the fort, then let his gaze sweep the ground around them—dunes, brush, and the narrow approaches perfect for a kill zone.
"Let's bring them to us," he said. "We set the traps here. Once they're ready… we light the explosion and let curiosity do the rest."
A flicker of something almost unhinged danced in Idrin's eyes as he prepared the fire flasks, his hands moving with unsettling eagerness. Every so often a weird laugh would escape his lips as he imaged scenarios where the flasks are thrown with the results.
Mors watched him for a moment, a faint crease forming between his brows. Under his breath, he murmured, almost to himself, "This should be fine… right?"