Ser Elbert Arryn, nephew and heir apparent to Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, was burned alive in the throne room of the Red Keep. After weeks of mistreatment, and with negotiations collapsing in the wake of Robert Baratheon's reappearance, Ser Elbert demanded trial by combat—a custom of the Faith of the Seven long held among the Andals, especially by knights and highborn men, and one that cannot be lawfully denied when great lords sit in judgment. In such trials, accuser and accused place their fate in the hands of the gods.
Elbert, a skilled knight of noble Arryn blood, should have had a fair chance to prove his innocence. But Aerys chose fire as his champion. Elbert never had a chance. Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and the rest of the court stood witness as the king abandoned even the pretense of sanity. From that moment, a new name clung to him—first whispered, then shouted across the realm: the Mad King.
The impact was immediate. Robert Baratheon, having already mustered five thousand men, marched at once, scattering the three thousand royal troops along the Crownlands–Stormlands border—barely five hundred straggled back to King's Landing. In the Reach, Lord Mace Tyrell was the first to answer Aerys's call, dispatching ten thousand men under his cousin Ser Victor Tyrell's command with the support of Lord Randyll Tarly, while reserving his own entrance for the head of a grander host more fitting his presence. Dissident Stormlords added another five thousand to the crown's cause, while Robert's own bannermen rallied swiftly, swelling his force to twelve thousand.
In the Vale, the Bloody Gate remains sealed; no word save that men are mustering. In the North, Lord Rickard Stark is said to be raising his banners despite Aerys's command to stand down. And in King's Landing, Prince Rhaegar has at last been summoned to court, to lead the royal host alongside Lord Tywin Lannister and put down the rebellious stag.
The rest of the realm's lords quietly began mustering their troops as well, though to which banner they would march remained uncertain.
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Mid 279 AC — The Narrow Sea, Approaching Dragonstone
One week later
Moonlight silvered Dragonstone's dark towers, giving the island a hollow, living shape. The glass candle had shown them nothing; Mors suspected the place was built with some old Valyrian art he did not understand preventing him from seeing inside, but the little he did see worried him.
He stood at the prow of the Eclipse, flanked by the men he trusted most: Ser Bedwyck Uller, Ser Idrin Qho, Ser Tahlor Sand — who had begged to join the mission despite having their own command — Ser Qerrin Toland, Ser Garth Hightower, Ser Jeremy Norridge, and the others. Thirty men in all. Ser Daven Quarr commanded the fleet: five heavy, fifteen intermediate, and thirty light warships, a thousand souls ready at sea. But they would wait for the signal before approaching. But the Eclipse was going alone under the cover of the night; this was reconnaissance and rescue mission—for Princess Elia, for Prince Lewyn, Lady Alyssa, for the Dornish host. In the worst case, it would be a declaration.
"Rhaegar took a good portion of the garrison to King's Landing," Mors said, eyes never leaving the stone shape on the horizon. "But Elia was not among his hosts. Prince Lewyn and Lady Alyssa have not been seen either. Tonight—one way or another—we find them. Depending on how this goes, we may well draw the crown's full fury upon ourselves.
Jeremy pressed a hand to Mors's shoulder. "My prince, whether it's the crown's fury or the Stranger's blade, I will follow you until the end."
Qerrin bowed his head. "My life has been yours since you saved my life. Use it as you will."
Garth's voice was simple. "A knight follows the righteous path. I follow where you lead, Prince Mors. My swords yours."
Bedwyck spoke for the rest. "If my sister is harmed, I will make them regret it."
Mors nodded and fitted his mouth-veil in place. He raised Solaris. "Then let the realm see just how righteous the Dornish really are while also imparting some Stepstone justice. We begin by taking back my sister, Uncle, and Alyssa."
"As planned, we split in three," he said. "The larger party, led by Ser Bedwyck goes for the dungeons; the smaller stays behind as watch and guard, the other follow me ahead to the lord's solar and private chambers. If anything goes wrong, fire your flares. Idrin made them… so be careful."
Idrin's grin was bright in the lantern light.
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Night — Dragonstone
The smaller vessel bumped rock and was hushed by hands and cloth. Dragonstone rose above them: carved dragons, jagged battlements, a dozen torch-windows like patient eyes. Mors climbed the wet basalt with the ease of long practice; the others followed, keeping their breath shallow, stepping lightly to avoid making unnecessary noise and preventing them from slipping. They had selected this path away from the gatehouse to avoid unnecessary confrontations; with Rhaegar gone, patrols along the seaward wall were thin.
A rope whispered over the battlements. One by one they slid into the fortress' belly.
The yard lay quiet. Two guards by the well were pulled into shadow with quick, practiced moves. No alarm cried out.
Mors said quietly, "As we planned. Go!"
Seven men followed Mors as he slipped into Dragonstone, sixteen went further down the belly of the castle, towards the dungeons. Fortunately, they timed there mission properly, and there weren't as many men. His fleet and men remained at a distance waiting for a signal to join the fray.
Inside, Dragonstone smelled of smoke and salt. Vaulted halls arched above them, dragon-headed ribs swallowing sound. They moved slow, pressed to the stone, slipping into alcoves whenever feet clattered overhead. Half-empty or not, half the castle was still an army.
A spiral stair took them up toward the western tower. Voices—a chamberlain dictating to a scribe—faded, then the candles were snuffed as the men retired. Mors raised a fist as signal; they slipped through the carved black-oak doors into the lord's solar.
Maps were spread across a heavy table; a goblet cooled beside a discarded quill. Mors waited; then, when the corridor beyond the solar fell empty, he led them on.
The royal apartments lay beyond. Two mailed men dozed in a corridor. Idrin and Tahlor moved like shadows; the guards dropped without a sound and were dragged where no one could find them. Mors signaled, and they moved to what they hoped was the final door.
He placed his hand to the latch, met his friends' eyes, and pushed.
The chamber beyond was chaos: scattered clothes, broken glass, and darkness lit only by a single, barely flickering candle. There was a big cage in a corner. Elia lay inside curled and filthy, a small, broken thing. She woke with a start, crawling to the farthest corner until she saw him. Tears came free from her eyes. "Mors! Save me!" she cried.
Overwhelming rage surge in Mors. She was injured, her face a black bruise and her clothes torn. She looked smaller, as if the life had been squeezed from her. And she was with child.
"Elia, what happened? Are you with child? Why…?" he asked, hands already working at the cage.
She wept and hissed with fury. "Yes. His child. I should have listened to you—" She looked at him, voice thin. "You won't be able to open it. He has the key."
Mors smirked, then winked at her. "No key, then. Turn around. Don't look, I don't want you to accidently get hurt."
She turned, hope and fear braided on her face. He hefted, braced one leg against the cage's base, wrapped both hands about the iron, and drew. He unleashed his aura to give him strength, then pulled with all his strength—and the lock gave with a thunderous snap.
The door ripped free.
Jeremy whistled. "By the Seven. I still cannot judge the distance of your strength."
Elia stumbled out, looking weak and frailer than ever. Mors wrapped her in his arms and let her cry until her sobs shook loose and steadied.
"Where are Uncle Lewyn and Alyssa?" he asked at last.
Elia's face went hard. "Uncle Lewyn, Alyssa, the guards—they should still be alive. Right after it was confirmed I was pregnant, Rhaegar changed. He started talking about needing another wife, one born of ice for another line. He stopped caring for me and kept saying you were false, that only he was the promised one. Honestly, the ravings that came out of his mouth made no sense. Uncle Lewyn fell out with him, and Rhaegar ordered him beaten. When Arthur refused, they overwhelmed him too. They should all be in the dungeons."
Mors was surprised at that. "Arthur? He went against Rhaegar?"
Elia gave a faint smile. "Arthur was always gentle with us. Even as Rhaegar changed, once it became clear we were in danger, he tried to help. But… that bastard Jon Connington!" Her voice broke into fury.
"He threaten to kill me, that's how he went down so easily. After that, he would beat me and Alyssa in front of Arthur whenever he had the chance. As long as he spared my stomach, Rhaegar didn't care." She sobbed at the words.
Mors's blood edged white-hot. "We'll speak on that later. For now—out."
They silently retraced their tracks, trying to avoid any patrols.
Suddenly they heard a loud burst that broke the quiet of the night.
"The signal," Mors said. "They've been discovered, move!"
He slung Elia over his back. They cleared halls, cut down a loose patrol. As they neared a balcony overlooking the courtyard, they found Bedwyck and his men pressed hard — over a hundred and fifty royal soldiers had them surrounded, and more were pouring in. Alyssa slumped with a knife in her hand; Lewyn and Arthur lay senseless and bleeding.
Mors halted, eyes sweeping. "Jeremy, take Elia to the Eclipse. Signal Daven. Leave this to me."
Garth and Jeremy protested, but Mors shook them off. "If you are not able to get away in time, signal for Daven to land with the army, find a defensive position and focus on shooting with bow and arrow. Do not come near. Trust me."
He climbed over the balcony and looked down. Below, Jon Connington mocked the Dornish fighters. "Surrender now, and your bodies may remain intact after I kill you all," he taunted. "Honestly, I still don't understand why Rhaegar deemed you Dornish mongrels worthy of his divine blood."
Alyssa snarled, "You sorry excuse for a man. Once Prince Mors gets his hands on you and that coward Rhaegar, you'll wish there were no body left of you!"
Jon sneered. "Prince Mors? A pretender, nothing but a cheap replica of Rhaegar. If he were before me now, he'd beg for mercy." He spat the last word. "Kill them."
The men moved in, closing in for the kill.
At that moment, a shadow fell with unbelievable speed. Two men were crushed beneath the impact. Mors stepped off the two corpses he had just crushed; the floor beneath them had cracked. He walked forward with a casual smile, though his eyes spoke cruelty. Solaris rested across his shoulder. His smile was a slow, cocky curl of his mouth. "You speak my name so lightly," he said. "When did every street rat learn to address me so? I do not know you, and I do not care to. Today will be the anniversary of your death, let's dance."
Alyssa covered her mouth with shaking fingers. "Mors?" Tears pooled in her eyes.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat. Solaris drove through Connington's throat and out the other side. Wide-eyed, Connington clawed at the shaft; the grip slipped and he slumped, finally still. Though dead, the corpse remained upright, held in place by the spear and Mors's strength.
Mors looked at Connington's corpse with mock pity. "Did he think he was the protagonist?"
With an elbow thrust Mors ripped Solaris free, then slashed out in a savage arc and five men folded under that one blade, their bodies collapsing into one another in a tangle of torn mail and scattered blood. The air filled with the sharp, coppery tang of it and the choking reek of smoke from the flasks igniting overhead.
Flask-fire bloomed like false daylight above them, hissing in the courtyard air; arrows answered from the battlements, a stinging, deadly rain. Elia's remaining guard—gaunt, half-mad, desperate for breath and redemption—rallied at the sight of open battle. They grabbed crude weapons and lunged, faces white with hunger.
Mors gave garrison men no quarter. He moved with vengeance and a kind of terrible, cold efficiency; every strike found bone or throat, every blow counted. He vaulted from corpse to corpse, using broken men as steps to reach the next clutch of lungs, trampling a fallen guard to free his path, then springing, spear flashing. Mail split, leather ropes frayed, a man's head crumpled under the arc of Solaris and rolled like a broken wheel.
Where his shadow fell, men collapsed. Screams became a form of symphony—Mors its composer and conductor. The courtyard beneath his boots soaked deeper and darker with every passing heartbeat. He did not think, he did not worry, he did not scheme, he unleashed and killed. His fury not yet abating.
'No more hiding, no more waiting.' His thoughts flowed.
And for the first time he let his aura truly loose. The air about him felt thicker, as if the world itself bent to his will; his muscles shot with strength beyond any mortal measure, heart and breath steady as a drumbeat. Each movement lengthened, became more monstrous in its force, and the men who met him were not merely struck — they were undone, as if the very gravity of the place had turned on them.
The slaughter became a tide, inexorable and terrible. When the last man fell and the arrows stilled, Mors stood in a courtyard of bodies, Solaris dripping, chest heaving, the spearhead catching the moonlight like a small, merciless sun.
It had only been thirty minutes, but an eerie silence fell over the courtyard. All eyes were on Mors. A disorganized wall of around three hundred garrison men watched the forty or fifty who remained near Mors — and the sight of him, blood on his face, Solaris across his shoulder, was enough. He walked slowly toward them, planted his spear, and the impact sent a deep boom that reverberated across the yard. He met their eyes with cold amusement.
"It's unfortunate," he said. "It seems you are surrounded—by me. Yield. Surrender now, and you will be prisoners of war, I'm not cruel, I will treat you well. Resist, and as you may have noticed, I am blessed by the Seven, their champion if you will. Instead of the Mother's embrace you will find… the Stranger's kiss."
The captain, pale as bone, dropped his weapon. "We… we surrender."
One by one, the garrison followed. Mors replaced his spear on his shoulder and turned. At that moment men bearing Mors's standard—Sun and Spear, on black background—poured into the courtyard: five hundred of their men, led by Ser Daven Quarr. Mors only smiled.
"No need to kill them. Take them prisoner. Search the castle, bring what we can back to Sunfort."
"Yes, my prince," Jeremy said.
Elia, who had refused to leave as instructed, ran to Mors and hugged him. Alyssa, close behind, hugged him too. Surprised, he felt them trembling and hugged them back.
"You are safe. I'm here now," he said gently.
'This could be read as raising banners against the Crown. I'll need to speed things up.'
They set to work. The castle would be swept, the wounded tended, the prisoners bound. Then they left as quickly as possible—hoping no one saw them storm Dragonstone so they could remain unengaged for a while longer. But if they were seen, if the news broke out, they would be ready.
'…And Rhaegar will pay.'
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Mid-Late 279 AC — The Lord's Solar, Sunfort, The Stepstones
One Week Later
Mors Martell, Doran Martell, Lewyn Martell, Jeremy Norridge, Arthur Dayne, and Garth Hightower sat in silence. They had just returned from their mission last night and Mors had given a summary to Doran who had arrived this morning. Tension hung in the air. Lewyn and Arthur still looked weak from their imprisonment. Doran's jaw was tight; there was an unusual fierceness in his eyes. He rubbed his brow. "I'm just glad Oberyn isn't here to hear this…"
Mors looked at Doran, serious. "Worried he'd leap at you for pushing your ambitions on Elia? For risking everything? If we had time, I'd gladly take Oberyn's place in beating you bloody… but it's not worth it." He sighed.
He glanced around the room—thinner Lewyn with an eye patch from injury, a weary Arthur keeping Dawn by his side. It was lucky the sword remained on Dragonstone; otherwise it might have been lost.
Mors went on. "As you all know, my actions—though driven by justified anger and duty to my sister—were practically a declaration of war. We haven't heard anything yet, but Rhaegar can put pieces together. In addition, in the two weeks I was gone the war has grown. Robert's forces are moving into the Riverlands with the last of his ten thousand men after engaging parts of the Reach/Crownlands/Stormlands host. The Vale has joined, the Westerlands have joined. My killing of Jon Connington may have pushed the Stormlands toward Robert; without Connington to hold them, they will likely fall in behind him. Robert has a magnetic charisma in his own way. Soon all parties will be forced to call for a side."
Silence filled the room; it hung there as they let the words settle.
He turned to Arthur. "You said you had information."
Arthur sighed and nodded. "I do. I will likely be charged with treason and named an oathbreaker—if I'm not already. But I am a knight first, a Kingsguard second. Rhaegar has been slipping into madness, though he masks it well. For some time now he has been obsessed with prophecy and Valyrian lore." Many in the room frowned. Arthur added, "He believes he is a prophesied hero, meant to save the realm from some great calamity."
Garth and Jeremy looked to Mors. Mors nodded. Arthur added, "He was that way before Lannisport, but after he lost to Mors in the tourney he changed. He began to doubt, then to force the story. He tried to copy Prince Mors—his manner, his things—and that included Elia… even my sister, anything to get closer to that ideal image. There seem to be two parts to the prophecy: one of ice and one of fire. Elia is the fire according to him. Rhaegar seeks his ice. He's always said a dragon must have three heads."
Silence followed.
Lewyn spat, "He's mad. Father and son—a pair of raving men. The realm would be better without them." He went back to nursing his headache.
Doran said, "This is… useful, maybe. But what does it mean? What can we do about it? I see now that tying ourselves to the throne was a mistake, but—"
Mors cut in. "What does that have to do with us? What's our next step?"
Doran nodded.
He met their eyes. "As crazy as Rhaegar may be, some of what he says is true—just not about him." That got everyone's attention.
Doran blinked. "You mean you believe this? Since when? Is that why you grew so solemn as a child? Why you changed?" He looked at Mors, surprised.
Mors nodded. "I always felt something coming. When I began to dream it, I was convinced." He said, "This war is not the whole reason I've prepared. We must stay whole for a truer threat. We can't let the realm weaken itself now."
Doran sank back in his seat, thinking. "So we wait and adapt to how the war moves? It seems we cannot do much else."
Mors shook his head once. "For now we cannot act openly. But we will monitor the situation. We cannot have Aerys or Rhaegar on the throne—they will only make things worse for what is coming. They must be removed from the table. I will see to Rhaegar's removal myself." He finished, ruthless.
Doran said, "And you will have our help."
Silence fell again, heavy with the weight of their decision.