It had been three months since the rescue of Princess Elia Martell. She had taken permanent residence at Sunfort, refusing to leave Mors's side. With Ashara Dayne also carrying child, the two women had grown inseparable. Their circle widened to include Alyssa Uller, Syrana Qho, Syenna, Malora Hightower, Naerya, and Princess Mellario would join them when she visited, often with little Arianne, now two years old, at her side. Together they passed long afternoons with tea, Cyvasse, and the new games Mors had introduced—chess, checkers, and a simplified Parcheesi he named Race!. Mellei Uller and her daughter-in-law, Jeyne Fowler, soon joined as well, and before long the women's tournaments had become a courtly craze. Malora, winning more often than not, proudly declared herself "the Boardgame Queen of the Stepstones, destined to rule for a millennium." The men held their own smaller contests when free from duty, but what pleased Mors most was seeing the ladies—and especially Elia—living with laughter despite the shadow of war.
The realm beyond offered no such peace.
As Mors had anticipated, Prince Rhaegar soon learned what had transpired and who was responsible; fishermen near Dragonstone reported the fleet that had struck, sinking the patrol ships, and swore they had seen the black banners bearing the Dornish sun and spear.
Through Rhaegar's urgings and Varys's whispers, King Aerys commanded that Mors come to court and face judgment. Surprisingly, the king did not name him traitor outright—though rumor held that he burned several courtiers in a fit of rage.
Most tragically, Lord Jon Arryn, long imprisoned and weakened, finally succumbed to heart failure compounded by his many injuries. His death shattered the fragile stalemate that had held the realm in check, and the war lurched forward once more.
Robert Baratheon's fury became the stuff of legend, yet at Ashford he showed a sharper edge than wrath alone. Knowing Reach reinforcements were advancing after dissident Stormlanders fled into their protection, prepared his stand at Ashford. He seized the town and laid his trap. Using a blend of guerrilla strikes followed by a final hammer-and-anvil assault, Robert's host shattered the loyalists—thanks in part to Ser Victor Tyrell's poor command and refusal to heed Lord Randyll Tarly's counsel. The Reach and Stormlander loyalists suffered dearly: three thousand five hundred Reachmen slain, including Ser Victor himself, and another one thousand five hundred Stormlanders cut down. The slain were not more because Lord Tarly quickly took the helm of the army and retreated to safety, after sacrificing the Stormlanders. Robert lost two thousand, but the victory was his. The surviving three thousand five hundred dissident Stormlanders bent the knee to him, swelling his host to over thirteen thousand. With their lords taken captive, Robert marched north to seek allies in the Riverlands.
Meanwhile, Prince Rhaegar and Lord Tywin departed King's Landing at the head of twelve thousand Crownlander troops, intent on intercepting Robert's host and, if needed, establishing a forward base at Harrenhal. With them rode Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard, as well as its newest brothers—Ser Myles Mooton and Ser Richard Lonmouth, once squires of Rhaegar and knighted by his own hand.
From the west, Ser Kevan Lannister marched out of Casterly Rock with fifteen thousand men, accompanied by Lord Roland Crakehall and Lord Damon Marbrand, intent on linking with Tywin's host.
But the Riverlands flared before the two forces could unite. House Darry and House Whent, mustering five thousand for the crown, were intercepted by Lord Denys Arryn, the new Lord of the Vale, who marched with twenty thousand men hungry for vengeance. In the clash, two thousand loyalists were slain, another two thousand five hundred captured, and only a few hundred scattered. Victorious, Denys pressed on to Riverrun to join Lord Robert and Lord Hoster Tully, and to speak of drawing the Riverlands openly into rebellion.
In the south, Lord Mace Tyrell himself advanced with a massive host of thirty-five thousand, reinforced by six thousand survivors gathered under Randyll Tarly. Though Mace sought to disgrace Tarly publicly for Ashford and his kinsman's death, his bannermen dissuaded him; he would fight to restore his honor. He instead divided his forces: twenty-one thousand under his own command to besiege Storm's End, while twenty thousand marched under Ser Quentin Tyrell with Randyll Tarly, Lord Leo Ashford, and Lord Bennis Fossoway. Lords Mathis Rowan and Quentyn Roxton rode with Mace. Lord Leyton Hightower, however, still held Oldtown neutral. At sea, Lord Paxter Redwyne sailed to blockade the Stormlands with the Redwyne fleet, but would the Stepstones allow them to pass?
Current Forces Engaged
Royal Faction: ~70K
Opposition faction: ~36K
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Late 279 AC – Sunfort, The Stepstones
Mors sat in the courtyard with the ladies as another round of games unfolded. At one table, Mellei and Mellario bent over a chessboard, brows furrowed in deep concentration—though both jumped whenever a burst of laughter or groans came from the other table, where Malora Hightower, Elia Martell, Alyssa Uller, and Jeyne Fowler were locked in a raucous match of Race!. Jeyne had settled easily into the circle, but it was always Malora who made the most noise.
"No! Don't block my path!" Malora cried. "I am the unbeatable Queen of Boardgames—why must you gang up on me?"
Elia, restored in spirit though heavily pregnant now, laughed. "How else will we shut you up? As Mors often says, 'A tree that stands too tall will be the first cut down.'" Jeyne and Alyssa joined in her laughter.
Ashara sat beside Mors with her tea, watching him more than the games. His gaze seemed far away.
"Mors, my sun," she said softly. "What troubles you?"
Her voice brought him back. He gave a faint smile, strained at the edges. "Many things. But you don't need to trouble yourself. Just focus on staying safe and healthy—for yourself and the babe."
Ashara rolled her eyes, set down her cup, and pinched his side until he flinched.
He chuckled. "Ow, ow—alright, I'll talk."
She huffed with mock anger but laced her fingers through his. "I may be with child, but I can still help. Even if it's only by listening."
Mors sighed. "I was thinking of the war. Of Jon and Elbert's deaths. Of so many dying senselessly… It's unacceptable."
Ashara said nothing, but her grip on his hand tightened.
"And now," Mors continued, "Aerys demands I come to King's Landing for judgment—no doubt Rhaegar's doing, and others plotting in the shadows. Even if we don't openly join the rebels, I cannot allow Aerys and Rhaegar to go on ruling. I've already reached out to the North. Surprisingly, Brandon Stark remembered our talk at Lannisport fondly. Who would have guessed?"
Ashara giggled. "He was left speechless before you. You handled him with such authority and tact he didn't know what to do."
Mors laughed. "That he didn't…" He hesitated, then blurted the words out: "I offered to help free Eddard from King's Landing."
Ashara's smile vanished. She turned to him sharply. "You did what? You don't mean to go yourself, do you?"
He met her gaze without answering, then gave a strained smile.
"Mors!" she pressed, her voice tight with worry. "That's madness. Why risk your life for him?"
"Because I can," he said, serious now. "At Dragonstone I realized something. I am… almost a one-man army. My strength, my speed, my skill—no one in Westeros can match me… and they may never will."
He looked deeply at Ashara. "I can keep myself safe, Ashara. I won't leave you."
Ashara hesitated, but finally nodded.
"I don't want to risk our troops," Mors went on, "but without help the opposition may be crushed. If Eddard dies—or if he's rescued—the North will move. Helping him is the most effective way to weaken the throne."
Ashara studied him, torn between awe and dread. "…And how will you even enter King's Landing? You, of all people? You look more Targaryen than the Targaryens themselves."
Mors coughed. "Obviously I'll disguise myself. Paint my hair, darken my skin… don't sweat the small things."
Ashara smirked, though worry lingered in her eyes. "Of course. Sunny always finds a way."
Mors squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. I will—"
"Race!" Malora bellowed, leaping to her feet in triumph. Mellario dropped the chess piece she had been about to move, startled.
"The Boardgame Queen of the Stepstones defends her crown!" Malora proclaimed. "Despite your coalition, I reign supreme!"
Ashara and Mors exchanged a look, then burst out laughing.
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Two Days Later
Prince Mors walked solemnly onto the Stepstone flagship, The Radiant Spear. At his back came Ser Jeremy Norridge, Ser Qerrin Toland, Ser Garth Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Waiting at the prow was Ser Daven Quarr.
Daven bowed. "My prince, we are ready to engage at your word."
"Have we heard from the scouts?" Mors asked. "How far off are they now?"
"The Redwyne fleet should be four to five hours out, by their report," Daven replied.
Mors nodded. "And the final arrangements? How many ships and men have we committed?"
"Ser Bedwyck, Ser Idrin, and Ser Tahlor each sent forty percent of their strength," Daven said. "Together with our main fleet, we have one hundred and sixty warships and five thousand men. Ninety ships remain on patrol under their command, but so long as we end this swiftly, it will not be an issue."
"Good," Mors said. "Then let's make it swift. I've no wish to give those bastards in Essos any chance to stir trouble while we're tied up here. Signal the fleet. We'll link with Doran's host—another hundred warships, by his last raven's report—and engage them before they reach the Stepstones."
Daven saluted. "At once, my prince."
Mors turned his gaze westward, the wind tugging his cloak. 'What will you choose, Lord Redwyne…?'
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Late 279 AC – Summer Sea, Before the Stepstones
For an hour the fleets faced one another in silence. To the west, one hundred and seventy-five Redwyne warships. To the east, two hundred and sixty vessels flying the banners of Dorne and the Stepstones. The Summer Sea lay still between them, as though holding its breath.
At last, the Redwyne flagship raised a white flag of parley and eased cautiously forward. In answer, The Dornish Sun and The Radiant Spear did the same, cutting through the waters until the three ships met in the center.
On the Redwyne deck came Lord Paxter Redwyne, flanked by four knights who seemed more nervous than their lord. On the Dornish side, Prince Doran Martell stood with Prince Oberyn, Ser Ormund Uller, and Areo Hotah. From the Stepstones, Prince Mors Martell approached, Solaris resting across his shoulder, flanked by Ser Jeremy Norridge, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Qerrin Toland, and Ser Garth Hightower.
Lord Paxter began, his voice taut. "My princes, my lords—what is the meaning of this? I am under orders from my liege to blockade Storm's End in service to His Grace, King Aerys Targaryen. Are Dorne and the Stepstones declaring rebellion?"
Mors smirked as he strode forward, spear balanced carelessly on his shoulder. "Rebellion? Storm's End? We've no idea what you mean, Lord Paxter. We are merely guarding our seas against… dangerous elements. Imagine our surprise to find such a great fleet bearing down upon us. And imagine our delight when it was you." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "It's been some time. You look well… perhaps a touch heavier?"
Lord Paxter blinked, flustered, and instinctively glanced down at his stomach before catching himself. "What nonsense is this, Prince Mors? This is no jest. The rebels threaten the realm—trade falters, the smallfolk suffer. Robert Baratheon must be broken before worse follows. Is he not your enemy?"
Doran's voice cut in calmly, but with cold authority. "My lord, have you not heard? The king demands my brother Mors attend court to face judgment. For what crime, none can say. But you know what judgment means these days. Fire."
Lord Paxter paled, eyes flicking from Doran to Mors. "Then… you mean to fight us?"
"If we must," Mors said. His tone was light, but his gaze was like steel. "But I'd rather not waste good lives over a king unworthy of them. You know the knight at my side, Ser Garth Hightower?"
Paxter's lips tightened. He nodded once.
"The Hightowers and I have… an understanding," Mors continued. "They remain neutral. We remain neutral. So let us avoid senseless bloodshed. Return to the Arbor. Declare your neutrality. Continue our trade. Preserve your strength. Let others fight Aerys's wars." He leaned closer, voice low and dangerous. "This is my one and only offer, given for old friendship and courtesy."
The air seemed to shift. A weight pressed down on Lord Paxter, as though the sea itself had risen against him. His knees trembled.
"But if you refuse," Mors went on softly, "we will destroy your fleet here, and it will be you—you—who declared war between Dorne and the Iron Throne. We will descend upon the Arbor, and then Highgarden, as open rebels. All Westeros will remember it was your choice that doomed them."
The silence on the three ships was suffocating. Oberyn twirled his dagger with a grin. Arthur Dayne's hand hovered over Dawn's hilt, the rest looked ready to strike at the smallest movement. No one moved.
At last, Lord Paxter swallowed hard. "I… I will withdraw. We will return to the Arbor and declare neutrality in this war."
Mors's smirk softened into a genuine smile. He turned to the Redwyne knights. "See? A wise and decisive lord. He has spared your lives and your families'. Applaud him."
The knights glanced at one another, uncertain. Mors's eyes hardened, and the invisible weight pressed down again. "I said… applaud."
Cold sweat broke out on their brows. They clapped awkwardly. "H- hurrah for Lord Paxter!"
Mors nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now return home. When you do, speak with Lord Leyton—he will set your mind at ease. Congratulations, my lord, on choosing wisely."
Lord Paxter disengaged. Within the hour, the Redwyne fleet turned its sails back toward the Arbor. The Dornish Sun and The Radiant Spear remained at anchor, watching them go.
Doran exhaled. "That went better than I expected. I thought we would see our first battle today."
Mors smiled faintly. "So did I. But I felt him waver. He wanted no part of this. I merely gave him the excuse he needed."
Oberyn barked a laugh. "So that was your intention? Seven hells, you sounded more pirate lord than prince. I half-expected you to shout, 'See that water? I put it there. That salt in it? Mine as well. Pay the toll if you want to pass!'" He mimed a buccaneer's swagger and burst into laughter.
Even Doran smiled at that, sharing a look with Mors.
"Yes," Doran said quietly, "but neutrality is its own declaration. Sooner or later, we will be drawn in."
Mors nodded. "Then let us be ready. Continue guarding the Stoneway and the Prince's Pass. If war comes to Dorne, we will meet it prepared. As you can see, the Stepstones already stand ready."
Doran's gaze swept over the fleet that had sailed with Mors. This was but a portion of his strength, yet the ships were sleek, well-forged, and deadly, the crews aboard them drilled to precision. They might number fewer than the great hosts of Westeros, but their discipline and readiness spoke louder than sheer size. A flicker of awe touched Doran's eyes as he inclined his head in silent approval.
Oberyn crossed to Mors's ship, eager to visit Elia and Syrana Qho. What could have been a bloody clash ended without bloodshed—yet its repercussions were only beginning.
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Two Weeks Later – King's Landing
A merchant cart, laden with apples and berries, passed inspection at the Mud Gate and rattled into King's Landing. In a narrow alley, five figures slipped away from the cart. Among them was a hunched old man with a sickly stoop, his face marked by unsightly warts. Once hidden in shadow, the man peeled them off — false growths — revealing himself as Prince Mors Martell.
The cloaked men at his side were Ser Qerrin Toland, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Garth Hightower, and Daro "the Swift."
Mors's eyes swept the alley. "To Flea Bottom. Our contact waits in an alehouse. Daro — you scouted it. Lead."
"Aye, my prince," Daro answered.
They wound their way through alleys and backstreets, avoiding Gold Cloak patrols and the eyes of any passing nobles. Arthur was too recognizable as a Kingsguard, and Mors more so — not yet outlawed, but summoned to court under threat. Discovery would mean unnecessary trouble.
After an hour of careful progress, they entered a shabby alehouse in Flea Bottom. It was what they expected: sour air, questionable stew bubbling in pots, and rough men slumped over their cups. Their quarry sat in a shadowed corner, a tankard before him untouched.
Mors approached and sat. The others claimed the next table, dragging away its drunken occupants without protest — such things went unnoticed here.
Mors inclined his head. "Ser Barristan."
In plain clothes and a hooded cloak, Ser Barristan Selmy nodded. "Prince Mors." His gaze shifted to Arthur Dayne across the room, their eyes meeting with an unspoken weight. Both inclined their heads in acknowledgment.
A serving girl drifted over. Mors waved her off with a terse order. "Ale. For me and my sellsword brothers."
When she left, silence pressed between Mors and Selmy until the knight finally spoke. "Is this the path you choose? You truly intend to free Eddard Stark?"
Mors held his gaze. "Aye. Aerys is my kin, but he's gone too far. Especially Rhaegar, he has gone too far... With Eddard free, the North will rise unhindered and help stop them. That is what must be done."
Barristan's brow furrowed. "Even Rhaegar? He might not be all he appears to be, but surely he can't be as bad as his grace? You can still reconsider, I've only scraps of what passed. Rhaegar raged in court, speaking of your betrayal—that you stormed off with Princess Elia, sank ships in anger, and Ser Arthur followed as her guard. For the royal family… a mundane familial quarrel at most, all things considered."
Mors's brows drew tight. He turned to Arthur, who looked equally darkened by the lie. "Mundane?" Mors's voice hardened. "He imprisoned, tortured, and killed Elia's guards. Jon Connington beat her—avoiding her belly as not to harm her child—and even Arthur was struck down when he tried to intervene. I killed that bastard, Jon. But death was too clean an end for him."
Barristan's face went ashen. "What? Imprisoned? Tortured! Wait, Jon Connington? But the court was told he fell to pirates. Why would Rhaegar…" He trailed off, aghast.
Mors exhaled slowly. "I don't know what his game is… but he lies as easily as he breathes."
Silence hung. Then Mors leaned forward. "So. Eddard Stark."
Barristan sagged, as if yielding to a burden too heavy. He nodded. "Very well. I will help you." He drained his ale in one gulp and rose.
The group followed. As they walked, Selmy said quietly, "I'll take you through a hidden path to the dungeons. But once there, you are on your own. Gods help me, I hope we don't meet as enemies."
Mors gave him a look but held his tongue.
Then he froze. The others halted too. Mors felt it — killing intent, animosity. None of the common folk would dare deliberately harbor such malice toward a band of sellswords; so this wasn't from a normal person. He looked around quickly and noticed a presence slipped away into the dark, smug with triumph.
An ominous premonition washed over him as the name formed in his mind. 'Varys.'
A moment later Gold Cloaks poured into the street from the alleys on every side, shields gleaming in the lamplight, hemming them in with sheer numbers.
Barristan spun in disbelief. "Impossible! I wasn't followed. How—"
Mors's said nothing but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.
Three men strode forward from the ranks. The leader bore a noble, hard-cut face—stern, yet lined with impatience. A sardonic smile tugged at his mouth as he tried to cloak it beneath a veneer of courtesy.
"Prince Mors Targaryen," he announced. "I am Ser Jaremy Rykker, Commander of the City Watch. With me are my captains, Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Harwyn Buckle. By royal command, we are to escort you to the Red Keep. Come quietly—there's no need for this to turn unpleasant."