It had been two months since Jon Arryn was seized on the orders of King Aerys, and in that short time the realm had shifted with every new turn of the wheel, each event heavier than the last.
Jon Arryn had surrendered himself peacefully, hoping to ease tensions and mediate the misunderstanding born of Robert Baratheon's rash words. He believed—naïvely—that as Lord of the Eyrie and head of one of the great houses of Westeros, his authority and dignity would keep matters from escalating.
He was wrong.
Despite sharp protests from the small council, and even Lord Tywin's open opposition, King Aerys commanded Jon's imprisonment. At once he sent word for Robert's arrest, who was still hiding somewhere in King's Landing, threatening that if the stag proved defiant and didn't surrender for punishment, his closest friends, allies, and kin would be seized in turn.
What followed burned itself into memory. Elbert Arryn, Eddard Stark, and Robert himself—accompanied by the small retinue that had escorted them to Prince Rhaegar's wedding—fought their way out of King's Landing. In a desperate clash they carved through the city guard and even bested Ser Jonothor Darry of the kingsguard, leaving him bloodied. They escaped in secret aboard a fishing vessel out through the Blackwater Bay.
Yet their flight was short-lived. A patrol sighted them, and soon the royal fleet closed in, Ser Barristan Selmy and Lord Lucerys Velaryon at its head. Surrounded, they fought aboard the fishing boat until the small craft was shattered beneath them. In the struggle, Eddard Stark and Ser Elbert Arryn were defeated and taken, both sorely wounded. Robert Baratheon, bloodied and battered, was struck overboard into the sea. The king's men scoured the waters for his body, but none was ever found.
With Jon, Elbert, and Eddard in chains, despite the protest from their respective kingdoms, no other action followed. For a time, tension smoldered more than it flared. But everyone knew the embers could burst into flame at any moment. In the North, Lord Rickard Stark was said to have ordered his men to readiness, vowing to call his banners at the first spark. In the Vale, Ser Denys Arryn closed the Bloody Gate and mustered his standing host, pressing for diplomacy even while preparing for war.
The Stormlands, at the eye of the storm, seethed with division because of their young, brash lord. On one side—Houses Connington, Cafferen, Grandison, Fell, Buckler, and Wylde branded Robert Baratheon a traitor and bent toward the crown. On the other—Houses Estermont, Tarth, Penrose, Caron, and Swann urged restraint, dialogue, and loyalty to their liege lord. Between them, lesser houses kept their silence, waiting to see which way the tide would turn.
When word spread that Robert Baratheon had vanished, seemingly perished at sea, tempers began to cool. With Tywin Lannister guiding the council, diplomacy seemed to gain ground. In King's Landing, King Aerys declared Robert's death the judgment of the gods and the price of defying the dragons. The small council pressed for mercy, winning lighter sentences: brief imprisonment for Jon Arryn and the young heirs, followed by a public show of submission from Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Rickard Stark, and Lord Stannis Baratheon —while young Renly Baratheon would be taken as a hostage to soothe the king's pride. For a moment, it seemed the realm might settle.
All was well—
until Robert Baratheon returned.
With scarcely one hundred men at his back, he rode out of the Kingswood, fighting through royal patrols on the Crownlands border to the Stormlands, before making his way to Storm's End. His survival became a tale in itself. Thrown from his ship into Blackwater Bay, his body washed ashore near the Wendwater lake. There he was taken prisoner by the Kingswood Brotherhood, a growing band of outlaws—smallfolk and hedge knights of dubious repute—led by Simon Toyne and infamous for their raids.
Robert spent weeks among them while they tended his wounds. Somehow, through wit and charisma, with some occasional fights in between, he, Toyne and his merry band, forged a strange bond, near to blood-brotherhood. By the time he left their company, the Brotherhood had been swayed to his cause, ready to turn their blades against the tyranny of King Aerys.
With their aid, Robert reached Storm's End alive. Once there, he wasted no time. Ravens flew across Westeros, decrying the king's injustice and calling for support. More letters went north and to the Vale, asking to demand the release of Jon Arryn, Elbert Arryn, and Eddard Stark. At the same time Robert summoned his bannermen, declaring that if the crown refused to release his brothers and foster father, the realm itself would fracture upon the consequences.
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Mid–279 AC – The Water Gardens, Dorne
Children's laughter drifted across the Water Gardens, mingling with the splash of fountains and the shimmer of sunlight on water. Rainbows danced in the mist, giving the palace its dreamlike beauty. At one of the pools, Ashara, Mellario, Syrana, Malora, and Jeyne Fowler—Manfrey's wife—played with baby Arianne. Ashara lingered near Mellario more often now, ever since she had quietly revealed she was three moons with child. It should have been a time of joy.
Mors had come to the Water Gardens under the pretense of rest—to spend time with his kin, to let Vezar run the sands under Malora's hand, and place Ashara in a calming environment for her pregnancy. But all of them knew better. This was no holiday. This was the pause before the storm. Dorne's armies and fleets were primed, the Stepstones secured, their war machine ready to ignite at the first spark.
Mors, Oberyn, Doran, and Manfrey sat in a circle with cups of wine, their expressions grim.
"So Robert has reemerged," Mors said at last. "I never thought a stubborn fool like him would drown so easily, but to appear so suddenly, summoning his levies without hesitation… it means the time has come. I only worry about—"
"Elia!" Oberyn nearly snarled, cutting him off. His eyes burned at Doran. "Two moons without a word? No message from her, from Uncle Lewyn, from Alyssa—nothing! Something must have happened."
Doran dropped his gaze, unwilling to meet his brothers' eyes. Manfrey stared at the pools, feigning detachment, not wanting to accidently incur their wrath by association.
"Yes. No word," Mors said quietly. 'Even with the glass candle, I cannot pierce Dragonstone—and no Dornish guards stand there now…'
"Something has happened," he went on. "But we know what must be done."
At that, Oberyn leaned forward, Manfrey turned his head, and even Doran looked up.
"We get her back," Oberyn said fiercely. "We get her back—and break that sissy dragon in the process."
Mors's mouth curved in a thin smile. "Something like that."
Doran cut in, voice soft, but authoritative, "First we ensure Elia's safety. We need to proceed with caution and stealth. But if something did happened, there will be no mercy—but it must be swift, and it must be precise."
Mors nodded, his eyes hardening. "It will be. Leave it to me."
The others felt a measure of relief at that. If Mors took the lead, there was little cause to doubt.
"Let me come," Oberyn pressed, a sharp edge in his voice. "I've been waiting for a piece of Rhaegar."
Mors hesitated, then shook his head. "Not this time, brother. You're needed here."
Oberyn's shoulders sank, but he gave a curt nod. Doran, by contrast, looked quietly relieved.
"War is coming," Mors said at last, shifting the weight of the talk. "The only question is what part we will play." He looked at each of them in turn. "So—are we ready?"
Doran nodded. "We are. We quietly mobilized our men since two months ago. Six thousand standing right now. Twenty thousand total men can be fielded at once, with another ten thousand for garrison, of which five thousand could march if pressed. We have one hundred and fifty warships."
Mors replied, "I command seventy-five hundred field troops that are always ready, and twenty-five hundred for garrison. We also have two hundred and twenty-five warship, with more still in development, constantly patrolling the Stepstones."
He exhaled. "That gives us at least thirty thousand men—on the higher side of what most kingdoms can field, though still less than the Reach. Our advantage is readiness. While others will spend moons raising levies, our troops are already trained, armed, and in position. If we defend Dorne, no host can break us. Formidable, yes—but it depends on the foe, and how we choose to use them."
The others nodded in silence. Compared to the great hosts of Westeros, Dorne was still outnumbered.
"Our fleets, however," Mors added, "outmatch any other kingdom. At sea, we hold the advantage. But in war, we may face more than one enemy at once, losing this advantage."
"I believe our best move is neutrality," Doran said carefully. "Delay. Let the factions reveal themselves before we commit."
Oberyn slammed his cup down. "We could have done that if Elia wasn't chained to the dragon prince! Do you truly think we can stand aside now? Do you think it will be allowed of us?"
Manfrey spoke hesitantly, then turned to Mors. "And you? Can you stay neutral, cousin? You are the king's favored advisor—his kin. The great lord the king raised himself. Can you hold back?"
Mors's face hardened. "No. But that does not mean I must commit everything. I will return to King's Landing, advise Aerys, and find out what has happened to Elia. Or I might just head straight to Dragonstone. Once I return to Sunfort I will decide. Regardless, it will be dangerous."
Oberyn gave a crooked smirk. "Dangerous? Perhaps for them."
That drew the faintest smile from Mors. Then he looked at Doran. "Now—tell us what we face. The kingdoms. Their numbers. Their likely friends."
Doran welcomed the shift in subject. "First, the 'Royal Faction'. The Crownlands can raise fifteen thousand. The Reach is vast—under a strong lord they could muster up to one hundred thousand troops, with sixty or seventy thousand being average, but under Mace Tyrell, perhaps forty-five. Still formidable, but more manageable."
"Too many flowers," Oberyn scoffed. "I doubt they'll stand when pressed."
"Even flowers have thorns Oberyn," Mors countered. "Jeremy says their men are well trained, only lacking the will to excel, a war can change that. Under the right command, they could be deadly."
Doran went on. "The Westerlands may prove less certain in this faction. Since Tywin rules in truth, not King Aerys, he may remain aligned to the throne, but that depends on him not getting tired of the king. They can field twenty-five thousand, and their coffers might buy another five to ten thousand sellswords."
"That puts the royalist tally near ninety thousand," Oberyn said, "without counting splinters."
Doran leaned forward. "Now—let's call them the 'Opposition Faction'. The Stormlands can muster twenty thousand. The North, if it joins, brings thirty thousand hard men who fight to the death—with Eddard Stark captive I'm not sure of their stance. The Vale could add fifteen to twenty thousand, though with Jon and Elbert captive, they may hesitate. The Riverlands could be swayed through the Starks—Catelyn Tully's betrothal ties them close. That would add another twenty thousand. Altogether, near ninety thousand."
Mors weighed the numbers, his expression darkening. "That's… evenly matched. In the end, it won't be strength alone. Initiative and opportunity will decide the outcome."
Doran nodded. 'And then the so-called neutral powers: Dorne, the Stepstones, and the Iron Islands. Thirty thousand from us, another fifteen to twenty thousand reavers from Pyke if they rise—fifty thousand, give or take. But Lord Quellon Greyjoy is a wildcard. The wisest Greyjoy to sit the Seastone Chair… though that's like saying the kindest scorpion in the desert. He has kept to loyalty, forsaking their old ways, but his sons are another matter entirely.'
The numbers hung heavy in the air.
"That's… a lot," Manfrey said quietly. "Could it truly come to war across all of Westeros?"
The others turned to Mors. He met their eyes and gave a grave nod.
"Make no mistake. Whether sparked by Aerys and Robert now—or by something else later—this will engulf us all."
They all looked troubled.
Mors set his cup aside. "Then our course is clear. We take a defensive posture first. The Stoneway and the Prince's Pass must be reinforced with standing armies, ready to march at a moment's call. Our ships must patrol Dorne's coasts and the Stepstones without pause, intercepting raids or sudden landings before they strike home.
But the greater danger may not come from Westeros at all. We must guard against Essos—Lys and Tyrosh most of all. They may see this chaos as a chance to cripple us, to strike at our glassworks and choke our trade. My fleet can watch for them now, but if they move, we must be ready to strike back—hard, and without delay."
Doran inclined his head. "Agreed. We will be ready. Manfrey, you will take a third of our standing host and hold the Stoneway. No Stormlander may pass. Split the Spears of the Sun into three contingents: one with you, one with your father-in-law Franklyn Fowler, and one with me."
Manfrey rose and saluted formally. "Yes, my prince. Consider it done."
Oberyn leaned forward, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. "And me, brother? What about me?"
Doran studied him a moment, then murmured aloud, half to himself, "Yes… what about you?"
Mors cut in. "Let Oberyn take temporary command of the Spears while Manfrey reinforces the Stoneway. It makes sense—Manfrey will be occupied."
Oberyn's grin was fierce. "With pleasure."
Doran's face sobered. "Oberyn, you understand the danger, and the responsibility. If you take this post, you must command as Lewyn himself would—with discipline and care."
Oberyn's smile faded into a steady nod. "I know. I will not put Dorne in peril."
"Good," Doran said. "Then we split the Spears: half to operate with Manfrey and Lord Franklyn, the other half under Oberyn's command. Move quickly; the sooner these dispositions are in place, the safer our coast and passes will be."
With the plan settled, Mors rose, drained the last of his wine, and set the cup aside. "Then I should prepare to leave for Sunfort. There's much to be done. Still—it was good to sit together like this, as we once did. Who knows when we'll have the chance again? When this is all over, let's share another cup." He ended with a bright smile, warmth in his eyes as he looked at his brothers and cousin.
Oberyn, Doran, and Manfrey rose with him. "Aye," they agreed quietly. "We should."
And with that, they left to put their plans in motion.
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One Week Later – Lord's Solar, Sunfort, The Stepstones
Mors had just arrived today, he stood at the patio doors of his solar, looking out towards the lively Sunfort Town, while his two master of whisperers, Arodan Sand, and Syenna reported to him.
"…And we have followed Illyrio Mopatis's steps for the last three months," Arodan said. "Though a successful merchant, his growth in the past year has far outstripped anything he achieved in the decade before. Most of his successes are tied to Westeros in one way or another. My conclusion is that he receives help—most likely from Varys."
Mors nodded. "That makes sense. So he profits directly from his connection to the Iron Throne through Varys. What of their past?"
"Not much," Arodan admitted. "It is difficult to dig too deeply without alerting him. We know he formed a friendship when Varys arrived in Pentos from Lys around 260 AC. It seems he was already a eunuch by then. They worked together for years, dealing in shadows, building Illyrio's wealth and influence. Varys even helped him arrange a marriage to a cousin of the Prince of Pentos, a magister's daughter, with whom he had a son. Both wife and child were killed in rival attack about ten years ago. Those rivals were wiped out soon after, their holdings divided between the magister and Illyrio, further cementing his position."
Arodan paused to clear his throat before continuing. "Last year, before Varys came to Westeros, Illyrio remarried—a Lyseni pillow-house girl named Serra; an eastern Valyrian beauty, with pale golden hair streaked with silver and striking blue eyes. Illyrio is utterly besotted with her. The Prince of Pentos disapproved and barred Illyrio from the palace, but strangely, Illyrio seemed unconcerned, as though it mattered little."
Mors turned and walked to his desk and sat, brows knit. "Strange indeed. To lose the Prince's favor should cripple him, yet he shrugs it off… Two possibilities: first, he truly loves Serra and placed her above ambition. Perhaps. But more likely, they have already achieved their real aim."
Arodan and Syenna exchanged startled looks at his conclusion.
"My prince," Arodan said slowly, "you think Varys came to Westeros because they were ready for the next part of their plan?"
Syenna gasped. "I just remembered—rumors spread last year of a brilliant spymaster in Essos. The talk began right after the Duskendale Rebellion."
The two glanced at each other, unsettled.
Mors nodded. "It's a leap, but it holds…" His eyes widened suddenly. He turned sharply to Arodan. "What of Serra? How was her connection to Varys? Did they know each other in Lys?"
Arodan shook his head with regret. "We did not consider that. We will need to send men to Lys. Shall I proceed?"
"Yes," Mors said firmly. "I have a thought about those two. Investigate at once and bring me word. You've done well so far. Also—find out where Illyrio keeps his most prized possessions. There may be something worth taking."
"It will be done, my prince," Arodan replied.
"Good." Mors shifted his gaze to Syenna. "How goes the hunt for spies in our lands? If you need my aid, say so."
"Of course, my prince," she said with a graceful nod. "I have almost—"
A heavy knock cut her off. Ashara's voice came through the door. "Mors, may we come in?"
Mors smiled at the sound, though the formality struck him as strange. "Of course, Ashara. Enter."
Ashara stepped in with Ser Jeremy Norridge and Maester Orwyn, their faces grave.
Mors frowned. "What is it?"
"King Aerys has burned Elbert Arryn alive," Ashara said, voice tight with worry. "War has begun."
Syenna gasped. Disbelief marred Mors's and Arodan's faces. Mors rose and pulled Ashara into a steadying embrace.
"So it begins…"