It had been two months since Prince Mors Martell led the daring rescue of Eddard Stark from the very heart of King's Landing. Word of the feat spread swiftly across Westeros, followed by the inevitable truth: the Stepstones—and by extension, Dorne—had thrown in with the rebellion. After all, what else was an all-out rescue of the king's prisoner if not open defiance?
In his wrath, King Aerys burned his Master of Laws, Lord Symond Staunton of Rook's Rest, blaming him for the chaos in the capital and for allowing Mors to break in and spirit Stark away almost unopposed. He then commanded his loyalists to bring both Dorne and the Stepstones to heel without delay. Mors's renown only grew greater when news spread that he had bested the legendary Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, during the rescue.
The war meanwhile surged on with unexpected turns. As anticipated, the North wasted no time, Lord Rickard Stark marching twenty-five thousand men south through Moat Cailin. In the Riverlands, Lord Hoster Tully declared for the rebels, sealing his alliance by betrothing his daughter Lysa to Robert Baratheon's younger brother, Stannis, to be wed once she was of age at 14. Yet Hoster went further, proclaiming openly that Robert Baratheon should be king—citing his descent through Princess Rhaelle Targaryen. When Rickard Stark heard of this, he embraced the claim at once, eager to be father-in-law to a king. Lord Denys Arryn, though less supportive, agreed the Targaryen line had to end. With their banners raised, the Riverlands added another fifteen thousand men to the rebel host, including the captured Darry and Whent levies who bent the knee.
Before the Northern host could link with its allies, disaster struck. With the Westerlands joining the Crownlands and Reach, the royalist host moved to meet the rebels at High Heart. There, the combined brilliance of Lord Tywin Lannister, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and Lord Randyll Tarly broke the rebels in their first great defeat, driving them back toward Riverrun. Only the timely arrival of the fresh Northern host prevented the war from ending outright.
Complicating matters further, the Ironborn seized their chance for plunder. Though Lord Quellon Greyjoy had long held back from the war, his eldest sons pressed him that the royal faction held the overwhelming advantage, and that to delay was to risk losing all hope of spoils. Yielding, he led one hundred longships and ten thousand men into the Riverlands, joined by Balon, Victarion, and Euron each commanding their own squadrons. Their raids along Ironman's Bay in the Riverlands spread fire and terror, plunging both regions into chaos. This forced the rebels to divide their strength, torn between answering the Ironborn raids and bracing against the advancing royal host.
In the south, Lord Mace Tyrell's twenty-one-thousand strong army abandoned the siege of Storm's End, turning back toward the Reach in search of "worthier" glory—or whatever notion occupied Mace's mind. The royal fleet left behind only a token force to cut off any succor that might reach the garrison within.
Eddard Stark remained at Sunfort, recovering under Prince Mors's watchful care and the skilled attention of Maester Orwyn. In the weeks that followed, he forged bonds with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Garth Hightower, and—much to his own surprise—with Prince Oberyn Martell whenever he was present. Most of all, Ned found himself drawn to the company of Ser Barristan Selmy, whose tales of past wars, valor, and chivalry stirred both admiration and quiet reflection in him. As his strength returned, he joined them in the yard, sparring and training to rebuild his vigor. The sessions further honed his already notable skill with sword and shield, sharpening the instincts that had long begun to set him apart.
Current Forces Engaged
Royal Faction: ~75K
Opposition Faction: ~58K
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End of 279 AC – Sunfort Training Grounds, The Stepstones
Morning light spilled across the training grounds of Sunfort, catching on steel and spearpoints. Mors stood with Ser Qerrin Toland and Ser Garth Hightower, watching the sparring yard slowly fill. Ser Barristan Selmy arrived next, having just finished putting Ser Daro through a brutal round—Daro now groaning in the dirt. Barristan had recently agreed to serve as Master-at-Arms for Prince Mors, declaring the Eclipse Guard "too lacking to properly perform their duties." The result had been relentless training from dawn till dusk. Daro, Jorran, and Cale had only just been knighted after their last mission, but knighthood had bought them no mercy.
Even Mors trained under Selmy now. Though Barristan judged him the finest warrior he had ever seen, he noted that Mors relied too heavily on overwhelming strength, speed, and stamina. Though unmatched, against sheer skill, he still stood just short of Barristan and Arthur. So Mors took the challenge eagerly, refining his technique with each clash, and to Barristan's alarm, he was improving fast.
Today, however, all eyes turned to the yard's center. At last recovered, Eddard Stark stood opposite Ser Arthur Dayne, shield and longsword in hand.
"I've been hoping for this," Ned said, anticipation in his voice. "Since hearing of you from my brother… watching from the sidelines has been torment."
Arthur smiled lightly. "Then let us spar properly. Now that you're well, show me your steel." He lifted his blade and nodded. "Begin when ready Eddard."
"Ned," Stark added quickly. "Call me Ned."
Arthur's smile widened. "Very well, Ned."
They met in a clash of steel. Ned thrust, Arthur parried with his shield and countered with a cut, which Ned blocked before slashing back. Arthur shifted, deflecting with his shield and slipping around to kick Ned lightly in the back, staggering him.
"That would have been a wound at best," Arthur said calmly. "At worst, death. Again."
Ned came harder this time, shield smashing against Arthur's, sword cutting high. Arthur met each stroke with patient precision, footwork perfect, forcing Ned onto the backfoot but letting him learn in the dance.
When Ned thrust again, Arthur caught his sword hand on his shield, shoved Ned's shield aside, and swept his legs in the same motion. Ned hit the dirt hard, Arthur's sword at his throat before he could recover.
"I yield," Ned breathed, exasperated but smiling as Arthur offered him a hand up.
From the sidelines, Mors clapped lightly. "Not bad, Ned. You've truly regained your strength."
"Aye," Ned answered with a grin. "And my skill sharpens with every spar."
"Then use your time here well," Mors said, tone wry. "I imagine you're eager to rejoin your father and brothers in the Riverlands?"
Ned nodded, more solemn now. "Aye. This chance… to train with Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur, even you—it seems you have a fighting holy ground here. I'll leave within the week."
"Tell me when," Mors replied. "Getting you there will take some doing."
The sparring continued for another hour before it was broken. Ser Jeremy Norridge strode into the yard, his expression grave.
"My prince," he called, "a raven from Oldtown. Urgent."
At the mention of Oldtown, Garth Hightower straightened sharply. The yard fell quiet as Mors took the letter and scanned the parchment. His brows furrowed.
"Did you inform Doran?" Mors asked.
Jeremy shook his head. "I came straight here."
"I understand. Do so now," Mors ordered. Jeremy bowed and jogged off.
Turning to the others, Mors raised his voice. "War has come. The Reach marches on Dorne. Twenty thousand at least, through the Prince's Pass—Mace Tyrell himself leads them."
Faces hardened, a mix of dread and anticipation.
Qerrin spoke first. "My prince, will we march as well?"
"Aye," Mors said without hesitation. "Dorne and the Stepstones rise and fall together. We depart at dawn. Qerrin—ready the men. Daro, tell Daven to prepare the fleet. Garth, find Maester Orwyn and send word to Bedwyck, Idrin, and Tahlor. With us gone, they must guard against Lys and Tyrosh twice as hard."
Qerrin, Daro, and Garth sprinted off at once.
Mors turned to the rest. "Prepare yourselves. Ser Barristan—my family's safety rests with you."
Barristan inclined his head solemnly.
With that, the training yard scattered—swords sheathed, plans unfolding. By morning, war would be upon them.
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Later that Night
Mors and Ashara sat on the patio of their chamber, gazing at the clear night sky. The full moon gleamed bright, stars strewn like jewels across the dark, giving the world an almost otherworldly calm.
The day had been long—Mors had spent it finalizing deployment plans with his council, ensuring the safety of Ashara, Elia, and Malora while he prepared for war. Both Ashara and Elia, heavy with child—eight and seven moons along—needed the security more than ever.
Tonight, he and Ashara shared a pot of honey lemon balm tea, her favored drink of late, the gentle brew replacing wine these past months. They drank in silence, savoring both the night air and each other's company.
At last, Ashara broke the quiet.
"Sunny… must you go? Can't Doran and Oberyn handle it?"
Mors's brow furrowed as he kept his eyes on the stars. After a pause, he answered.
"They could. But against the Reach, we can't afford hesitation. If the fighting drags, with our shared history, neutral Reachmen lords might flock to Tyrell's banner to settle past grievances. Only a swift, decisive defeat will stop them. Dorne must guard two passes, and though the Stoneway is treacherous enough to hold with fewer men, it still needs strength. That leaves the Prince's Pass, and Manfrey guards the Stoneway already."
Ashara nodded in understanding but her expression softened into sadness. "Why must there be war…?"
The question hung heavy in the night. Mors sighed. Rhetorical though it was, he still chose to answer.
"No one truly wants war. Yet too many profit from it. War breaks the order of things—letting the ambitious rebuild it to their liking. Look at the rebels: they haven't won, yet already cry for Robert as king. All with their own interests in mind. Even Doran could have resisted Elia's marriage to Rhaegar, but ambition blinded him too." He shook his head.
He went on, quieter. "If the dragons still lived, peace could be kept—even if through fear. Or with a ruler like Jaehaerys, who used power to unite instead of destroy."
Ashara fell silent, sipping her tea. Finally she whispered, "Just be careful. Don't throw yourself into needless danger."
Mors gave a wry thought—'That's easier said than done'—but only said aloud, "…I'll come back to you. I always will."
He turned back to the sky. "The night reminds me of you. When I'm away, I'll have it to keep you close."
Ashara smirked. "What's that word you use? Ah—corny. That's what that was."
They laughed softly, letting the moment linger.
A sudden pounding at the door cut through their peace.
"Morsy! Shara! Open up!" Malora's voice called, urgent.
Mors and Ashara exchanged a look. He rose quickly, opening the door to find Malora barefoot in her sleepwear, clutching the glass candle to her chest like a doll. Her eyes were wide, breath quick.
"They're coming," she said, rushing inside. "They're coming down!"
Mors's gaze darted to the candle. "Malora—who's coming?"
She paused, frowning in thought. "Hmm… I don't know. But I saw ships. Lots of them."
"Ships?" Mors repeated. "Coming down… from the Narrow Sea?"
"I think so. Do you want to see?"
"Yes," Mors said, voice steady. "Guide me."
Malora sat cross-legged on the floor, setting the glass candle before her. Mors joined, and together they touched it. At once the world shifted. But they seemed to pause.
Malora sat cross-legged on the floor, the glass candle before her. Mors joined, and together they touched it. The world shifted—they hovered above Sunfort, but the vision held still, unmoving.
'Malora?' Mors reached out in concern.
'Hmm… Which way was it?' Malora's voice wavered in his mind, confused, as though she'd lost track of her bearings. 'I forgot which way I was looking before…'
Mors nearly groaned, but steadied himself. 'You said they were coming down. That means north—our right.'
"Oh, okay!" Malora chirped, as if it she wasn't just lost a moment ago.
The vision snapped back into motion. They swept swiftly across the dark waters until eventually a vast fleet surged into view.
'I'll take control,' Mors murmured, narrowing his focus. Black hulls packed the sea, banners whipping faintly in the night wind—Velaryon seahorses, Targaryen dragons.
'The royal fleet? There seems to be roughly about two hundred ships… That's Lord Luceryn Velaryon, he's commanding.' His breath left him in a grim sigh. 'They're coming straight down; we are likely the target. Talk about bad timing, fortunately we were already mustering.'
The vision broke. Mors rubbed his temples and rose to his feet. "The royal fleet is moving. We are the target."
He strode to the door, calling to the guard outside. "Fetch Jeremy. Tell him to summon the council—we meet in thirty minutes."
"Yes, my prince," the guard said, hurrying off.
Mors turned back, already stripping off his robe for battle garb. "We won't be sleeping tonight. Malora, stay with Ashara."
Malora snapped into a clumsy salute. "Aye, captain!"
Ashara laughed, covering her mouth, while Mors allowed himself a faint smile. He bent to kiss her gently.
Malora immediately puckered her lips in mock expectation. Mors rolled his eyes but leaned down to brush her brow with a quick kiss. She gave an exaggerated swoon, cheeks coloring as if they'd shared some scandalous secret.
"Bad Morsy…" she whispered, voice dripping with mischief.
Mors rolled his eyes, and made for the door. "Rest well. I'll handle the rest."
And with that, he was gone.
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The Next Morning
The port thrummed with life. Men clambered aboard ships, sails were checked, ropes tightened, and formations set. The fleet of the Stepstones stood ready to face the royal fleet. Ravens had already been sent to Dorne with news of this last-minute shift. Mors had asked for their fleet to deploy as well, but there was no time to wait.
Ser Qerrin Toland and Ser Daven Quarr stood at his side, reporting.
"Four thousand men embarked," Qerrin said. "The warships are near capacity. Another thousand remain here with the transports. They'll join us when we engage the Reach in the Prince's Pass once we've won clear waters."
"The fleet is ready to sail at your word, my prince," Daven added. "One hundred and twenty-five warships. Messages have gone to Commanders Bedwyck Uller, Idrin Qho and Tahlor Sand. With luck, they'll reach them before any other variables come into play."
Mors looked over the bustling port. Families said hasty farewells, children wept into their mothers' skirts, wives clung to their husbands with desperate kisses. War made little room for mercy.
A carriage approached from Sunfort. Mors knew who it would be and moved to meet them.
Ashara stepped down first, Elia following with care. Malora, Alyssa, Naerys, and Syenna trailed behind.
Ashara fell into Mors's arms and clung tightly.
"Come back quickly," she murmured, her lips curling into a sly smirk. "If you do, I'll reward you."
Mors raised a brow at the tease but only smiled, kissing her. "I will. I promise you."
Elia embraced him next.
"Brother, take care of yourself. Show them what it means to cross the Martells."
Mors chuckled. "Now that you've said that, I suppose I have no choice."
She smacked his shoulder lightly but smiled as she stepped back.
Then Malora hurled herself at him like a rocket.
"Mors! Take me with you. I want to see you beat them!"
He hugged her back, already used to her eccentricities, but leaned close to whisper. "Stay here. Keep watch with Syenna. We have enemies in every shadow. Find the spies, and keep your eyes on Lys and Tyrosh. I can only trust you with this."
Malora blinked, wide-eyed at the weight of his words. She nodded firmly. "Don't worry, Morsy. I'll protect our family." She flexed her skinny arms in mock strength.
Mors's chest tightened. 'Our family.' She had become part of them, body and soul.
He turned to Alyssa, Naerys, and Syenna. They saluted. "My prince."
"Help Jeremy and the others while I'm gone. Syenna—heed Malora. If she discovers something, take it seriously."
"By your will, my prince," Syenna answered crisply.
As Mors turned to leave, Alyssa's voice called out, hesitant.
"Prince Mors…"
He paused, puzzled, as she stepped forward. She hugged him quickly before snapping back into a formal salute. "Be safe. I will protect Princess Elia and Princess Ashara."
Though surprised, Mors smiled softly. "I know Alyssa, I can always count on you."
Alyssa's face lit with a brilliant smile, but just as quickly she schooled her features back into her usual stoic calm.
He boarded The Radiant Spear. Ser Daven Quarr waited at the helm. Arthur Dayne, Garth Hightower, Qerrin Toland, and Daro stood with him. Eddard Stark had asked to join, and Mors had seen no reason to refuse.
Mors looked back at Sunfort one last time. "Daven. We sail when ready."
"Yes, my prince!" Daven barked.
As the warship cut free from the port, Eddard approached, awe plain in his eyes.
"Prince Mors, you've built something remarkable here. Your men are disciplined, loyal… they believe in you."
Mors gave a modest smile. "They were already fine men when they came to me. I only helped shape them into something greater together than apart. As for loyalty—treat men with respect, give them hope and a future, and the right ones will rise to it. The others… we send elsewhere."
Qerrin joined with a grin. "He sells himself short, Lord Stark. Every man here would throw himself into the sword for him. He trains with them, speaks with them, even listens to their petty woes. And he leads from the front, which makes our jobs miserable."
That drew laughter from Garth, Arthur, and Daro.
Daven cut in. "That he does. Fortunately, he has the strength for it." Then, to Mors: "We should intercept the royal fleet within four to five hours. Any Orders?"
Mors thought, then shook his head. "Let the men rest while they can. We likely won't be able to avoid this fight like we did the previous one."
Daven nodded in agreement, saluted and left.
Eddard lingered, hesitant. "Mors… do you think peace with Robert is possible?"
Mors frowned, then sighed. "Ned, you know Robert better than anyone. I never sought him out, but he's made me the ghost he needs to chase for his parents' deaths… Always him, never me."
Eddard's shoulders sagged. "Aye. He's been stubborn since boyhood. Sometimes I think the stag is wrong—his sigil should've been the mule."
Mors smirked faintly. "From what I've seen, that suits him better."
Eddard pressed on, voice heavy. "Now that we fight for the same cause, I want to find a bridge. With Elbert and Jon gone…" His words faltered.
Mors placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll have vengeance on Aerys. On all of them. I'll see it through. Even if it means having to work with Robert. But understand this—his insults, his slanders… As Prince of the Stepstones, as a Prince of Dorne… Not declaring war or challenging him to duel of honor is already mercy."
Eddard's head bowed, his shoulders seemed to sag in disappointment.
Mors's tone sharpened. "If I hadn't stopped Oberyn, he'd already have challenged Robert to a duel of death. The North keeps its word, aye—but remember ours: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. We do not forget."
He gave Eddard's shoulder a final squeeze before leaving to rest.
Eddard stayed behind, hunched and thoughtful, staring out to sea. He wondered how he could mend the rift between the old friend he'd grown up with, and the new one fate had set in his path.