The Chronicles of the New Age of Kings
by Archmaester Thalen of Oldtown, written circa 316 AC
Chapter XIII – In Which the Realm Was Sundered and the Seven Crowned Once More
In the year 280 after Aegon's Conquest, the doom of King's Landing came to pass. The blinding light that consumed the city left the heavens stained a sickly green, a grim beacon that marked the end of one age and the birth of another. From that fire rose a world remade, though few at first could grasp the breadth of what had been undone.
In the wake of that cataclysm, King Mors Martell, then still styled Prince of Dorne, stood before Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Denys Arryn, and Lord Brandon Stark. There, before the assembled lords of what had been the Seven Kingdoms, he declared that Dorne and the Stepstones would henceforth stand apart, sovereign and free. From that hour, no crown in Westeros could claim dominion over the southern sands.
Lord Robert's fury was said to have reverberated across the fields, yet with his armies shattered, his fleet destroyed, and Targaryen resistance yet unbroken, he could do little but seethe. He gathered what men remained to him and withdrew to Storm's End, there to wait upon the fleet of White Harbor before resuming his campaign.
The declaration from Dorne sent ripples through the realm.
In the Riverlands, Lord Mace Tyrell—acting as jailor over the Westerlands and Crownlands host—watched the distant green blaze that marked the fall of King's Landing. When word soon followed of Dorne's defection, he recognized the shifting tide and sought to salvage what remained of his fortunes.
With fifteen thousand Reachmen still under his banners and the rebel host too weakened—and too weary—to block his departure, Mace ordered an immediate withdrawal. Before departing, he released Lord Tywin Lannister—captured and crippled by Robert's hammer at the Trident—along with the fifteen thousand Westerlands men taken beside him.
Both lords marched south and west in silence, their banners lowered, their pride broken, and their cause lost. Yet before parting, they forged a brief and uneasy pact of mutual defense—born not of loyalty, but of survival.
The remnants of the rebel allied host, scarcely ten thousand strong, could do naught to halt them. Those who remained turned their strength upon Dragonstone, where the last Targaryens were said to have fled. Yet when they arrived, the island fortress stood empty—its halls deserted, its cellars filled with traps and ash. The dragon's brood had vanished beyond reach, leaving only whispers and smoke.
In the months that followed, peace—of a sort—returned. Lord Robert Baratheon, no longer bound to crown or council, named himself Storm King, reviving a title long thought buried in history. Lord Hoster Tully bent the knee to him, and was thereafter styled Prince of the Trident, in honor of his loyalty and station. To Robert's brother, Stannis Baratheon, were granted the burned remnants of the Crownlands—what little could be salvaged from the ruin of King's Landing and its surrounding keeps—reconstituted as the Principality of Dragonstone. From the scorched ruins of the capital and the ancient Targaryen seat of Dragonstone, he was charged to rebuild what fire had consumed and to rule what vassals yet remained.
Far to the south, King Mors Martell and his kin united Dorne and the Stepstones beneath a single banner, styling themselves the Kings of Dorne, with the Stepstones established as the princely domain of the crown heir. Emboldened by their example, the great houses of Westeros followed one by one. Mace Tyrell crowned himself King of the Reach. Tywin Lannister, his wounds healed but his wrath unspent, took the crown of the Rock.
In the North, Brandon Stark refused all entreaties of allegiance, and when pressed by his lords, accepted the ancient title of King of Winter. Thus the direwolf rose again, as in the days before the Conquest.
The Ironborn had yet to claim their crown. Lord Quellon Greyjoy lay comatose from wounds taken in the war, and so a Kingsmoot was called upon Old Wyk. From it emerged Balon Greyjoy, chosen of the Drowned God, who seized the driftwood crown and proclaimed the rebirth of the Iron Kingdom.
At last, even Denys Arryn, seeing the shape of the new order, declared himself King of Mountain and Vale. So ended the hegemony of House Targaryen, after two hundred and eighty years of rule. The dragon's fire had guttered out, and the Seven Kingdoms were kingdoms once more.
Yet peace was fleeting. In the closing months of 280 AC, the Storm King led a host through the Stoneway Pass, seeking to humble Dorne by force of arms. For three months his banners clashed with the Sunspear host, until the Martells broke his advance and drove him back across the mountains. Though no formal peace was signed, the borders fell silent once more by the turning of 281 AC. That same year, King Brandon Stark took to wife Lady Catelyn Tully, binding the rivers and the snows in alliance.
In 283 AC, a darker whisper passed through the realm: Lord Tywin Lannister, now King of the Rock, was found dead of sudden illness—or poison, as some claim. The Stormlands were quietly blamed, though no hand was ever proven, and the truth of the matter was never known. In thewake of his death, new alliances were swiftly forged: Prince Stannis Baratheon wed Lady Lysa Tully, while Lord Eddard Stark took to wife Alys Waynwood, cousin to Queen Alyssa of the Vale.
And then, in the year 284 AC, came the scandal that cast its shadow over the new age of kings. Jaime Lannister, golden son of the Rock, scarcely eighteen, took his own twin sister, Cersei, to wife, crowning her Queen beside him. Westeros shuddered at the deed. Septons decried it, maesters condemned it, yet none dared raise sword or standard against the wealth of the West. Thus the twins ruled together—king and queen of one body and one sin—while the rest of the realm looked on in silence, wondering what further chaos the new age of kings might bring.
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Mid–284 AC — The Water Gardens, Kingdom of Dorne
It was another warm day in Dorne, though the pools and fountains of the Water Gardens turned the heat into something almost divine. Sunlight rippled across clear water, scattering rainbows, and the air rang with the laughter of children. Beneath the shade of the orange trees, one of the marble pavilions—reserved for the Martells and their guests—stood unusually quiet.
Mors Martell sat motionless, a furrow between his brows. A bead of sweat slid down his temple as he stared at the table before him. Oberyn and Manfrey Martell flanked him, both equally grim, their eyes fixed on the same object. No one spoke. The weight in the air felt almost funereal.
Then, with a triumphant shout, the tension shattered.
"Race! The Board-Game Queen of Dorne strikes again! Hahaha!"
Malora Hightower leapt to her feet, arms raised in victory, her laughter echoing through the pavilion. The men slumped where they sat—defeated for the third time in a row. Her glee could have given the Mad King himself pause.
Mors dragged a hand down his face. "Seven help me…"
Oberyn groaned. "How does she keep doing it?"
Manfrey threw up his hands. "Magic. I swear it's magic. I refuse to believe otherwise!"
Mors pushed his chair back. "That's it. I concede the field. I can't bear another loss today."
Their lament drew laughter from the women nearby, until the cry of a baby softened the moment. A wet nurse approached with a small child whose clear blue eyes and pale-platinum hair mirrored her father's. Luna Martell, one year old—the daughter of Mors and Malora.
Malora rose at once, her grin melting into tenderness. "What is it, Luna? Did we wake you, my little sunbeam?" She gathered the child in her arms and carried her toward the shallow pools where the rest of the family played.
At the edge sat Ashara Dayne, holding one-year-old Syrena, and her near likeness, Allyria Dayne, now fourteen, along with Alyssa Uller, Mellei Uller, and Jeyne Fowler (Manfrey's wife), who cradled the newborn Lyra Martell. Beside them were Sylva Santagar (wife of Bedwyck Uller) and Syrana Qho, holding one-year-old Doran Martell, one of Oberyn's two young children with her.
In the water, laughter rippled as the cousins—the four-year-olds Daeron and Nymeria Martell—splashed with eight-year-old Maron and his betrothed, five-year-old Ynys Yronwood. Nearby, Oberyn's other children joined in: seven-year-old Tyene, six-year-old Sarella—a surprise daughter he had discovered originating from his time in the Free Cities—and three-year-old Dorea. Along the edge toddled the youngest cousins: three-year-old Daemon Uller, Bedwyck's son, and the two-year-olds Olyvar Martell, Manfrey's eldest, and Loreza Martell, Mors's daughter with Alyssa.
The family had flourished, and the Water Gardens—once the quiet refuge of their ancestors—now overflowed with laughter, sunlight, and life.
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Mors, Oberyn, and Manfrey had claimed a quiet corner of the pool to lounge in. Bedwyck Uller joined them after a few laps in the deeper water, settling beside them with a grin. The four men watched the happy chaos unfolding nearby, drinks in hand and sunlight glinting off the water.
Manfrey sighed contentedly. "Ah, this is so nice. I can't believe it's already been a month. I really don't want to go back to the Stoneway."
Oberyn smirked. "You don't have to. You could still join us for the tourney at Highgarden. There will be flowers… and more flowers… maybe even some extra flowers."
Manfrey and Bedwyck burst out laughing while Mors only shook his head, smiling faintly.
Bedwyck turned toward him. "We should be expecting the Starks in two weeks, right?"
Mors nodded. "Aye, that's the plan. They'll visit, stay with us for a week, and then we'll travel together to the tourney. It should be interesting—I haven't seen Brandon since the war. We'll have a lot to discuss besides trade."
'It's time I bring Brandon in on what is to come…' Mors thought solemnly.
Oberyn tilted his head curiously. "So… any idea what this 'Council of Kings' is really about?" He made exaggerated quotation marks with his fingers.
Manfrey and Bedwyck both looked to Mors, their amusement fading into curiosity.
Mors gave a wry smile and a small shrug. "I'm not completely sure. But there are likely a few main topics—trade between the kingdoms, for one. And possible threats, like the Ironborn. They've become a major nuisance to the western coast—harassing the Reach, the Rock, the Trident, even the North. Only the Reach and the Rock have any fleet worth mentioning, and even that might not be enough. As for the other subjects… I'm not certain yet."
Oberyn leaned back with a grin. "Honestly, it sounds like a dull affair. Syrana and I will probably find some flowers to entertain ourselves with. Maybe I'll join the tilts and represent Dorne. The gods know if the Sun of Dorne takes the field, everyone will just quit." He finished with a laugh.
Mors sighed. 'That's been one of the byproducts of showing my power—now I'm revered by many of the faithful, and few dare face me in the lists, whether out of fear or reverence.'
"Yes," he said, "it's unfortunate that I can't participate. But it should be entertaining nonetheless. At least the rest of you lesser beings get a chance to shine."
That earned a round of laughter from them all.
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The caravan made its way back to Sunspear. King Mors Martell rode at the front on Vezar, with Oberyn, Manfrey, and Bedwyck beside him. They were flanked by Lord Commander Barristan Selmy of the Eclipse Guard, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Garth Hightower, Ser Jorran, Ser Cale, and Ser Daro.
The Eclipse Guard had been reorganized into an elite Royal Guard—ten Kingsguard, each commanding ten men under their charge. The force operated in close coordination with the expanded Spears of the Sun, now one thousand strong and once again led by Prince Lewyn Martell as Captain-General, with Prince Oberyn Martell serving as his vice-captain. Together, they stood ever ready—trained, disciplined, and prepared for any specialized mission.
Since Sunspear was not far, it wasn't long before a bustling new city came into view: the new capital city of Dorne, Sunhaven. Dorne had become one of the wealthiest kingdoms in Westeros thanks to its booming glass production and trade, and much of that wealth had gone into the city's creation.
Oberyn glanced around as they rode. "I can never stop being impressed by these towers of yours, Mors. 'Windcatchers'—a fitting name. The way they draw in the air and cool the city… simply brilliant."
Mors nodded. "With the amount of gold poured into designing and perfecting them, I only hope they're worth the cost."
Manfrey grinned. "Aye, all across Dorne, every city is installing them. Life is changing—especially in the desert towns. This is a revolution."
Mors smiled at that. "If Naerys is right, we may soon be able to sell them to the Free Cities. It could become one of our major exports."
The caravan continued onward and soon arrived at Sunspear. After dismounting, Ser Jeremy Norridge and Ser Ormund Uller came forward to receive them.
"Welcome back, Your Grace," Jeremy greeted with a bow. "I trust you enjoyed your respite?"
Mors nodded as they walked toward his solar. "It was good. Though I'm disappointed you never joined us—you still hold the best record at Race! by virtue of never playing."
Jeremy smiled faintly. "Yes, that was my brilliant strategy."
They both laughed.
Mors asked suddenly, "Have you notified the council?"
Ormund bowed his head. "Of course, Your Grace. As soon as we saw you arriving, I sent people to inform them."
Mors nodded, visibly relieved. "Good. Thank you, Uncle Ormund. I'd much rather review what I've missed now than wait any longer."
After a brief pause, he added, "How are Elia and Qerrin?"
"They've been well. They're currently in the gardens with their son," Jeremy replied. "Elia's health has been excellent since you helped her—no issues at all since giving birth earlier this year."
"Good," said Mors. "She should have come with us, but as long as she's happy, that's all that matters."
In truth, Elia and Ser Qerrin Toland had formed a deep friendship that gradually became something more—not entirely formal, yet far from casual. When it became clear that Elia was with child, Qerrin had confessed the affair and asked for judgment, believing he had failed his vows as a Kingsguard. He had even offered to accept imprisonment to atone.
But Mors reminded him that, unlike the old order, the new Eclipse Guard were not forbidden from taking wives or raising families. Soon after, Elia and Qerrin married. Their children would bear the Martell name, and Qerrin was reassigned as her personal Kingsguard—a solution Mors considered a win for everyone.
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After taking their seats, they didn't have to wait long for the small council to arrive.
Once all the available small council members had gathered, Mors leaned back in his chair and looked around the table. "Since no urgent matter reached me at the Water Gardens, I trust there were no major problems?"
Jeremy, serving as Hand of the King, replied, "None, Your Grace. Everything was handled without issue. No major concerns to report."
Mors nodded. "Good." He turned to Ormund.
Ormund, Master of Law, spoke with confidence. "No issues we couldn't resolve. Sunhaven is coming along perfectly. The designs we planned have been followed with minimal setbacks. The influx of people was greater than we predicted, but with the City Guard maintaining order, there have been no disturbances. Aside from that, no problems."
Mors smiled. "Excellent. That's what I like to hear. Uncle, this is important—I want Sunhaven to become the greatest city in Westeros. If you encounter any issues, tell me at once."
Ormund bowed. "As you wish, Your Grace."
Mors then turned to his treasurer. "Lady Naerys, how are our coffers? Any word from the Free Cities about the Windcatchers?"
Naerys nodded proudly. "The heavy expenditures have mostly ended. With the city producing on its own, we've added another major source of income. The tolls to cross the Stepstones remain one of our most profitable ventures—especially now that the other kingdoms must pay. As for the Windcatchers, representatives from Volantis, Pentos, and Braavos are due to arrive in just over a month. They wish to see them in person before negotiating to acquire them."
Mors smiled. "Excellent. That should stabilize everything soon. Keep up the good work, Naerys."
He then turned to his Master of Arms. "Lord Beric, how goes the training?"
Beric Dayne nodded. "Your Grace, progress continues well. Excluding the Spears, we can field thirty-six thousand men consistently with potentially twenty thousand more for garrison. As per your order, twelve thousand remain standing at all times—four thousand along the Stoneway, four thousand at the Prince's Pass, and four thousand around Sunspear. Every four months, we rotate twelve thousand more to rest. We've also been coordinating closely with the Spears and the fleet to keep everyone drilled."
Mors smiled faintly. "Thank you, Good-Father. Keep up the good work. I trust Ulrick has been leading Starfall well in your absence?"
Beric laughed. "Of course. He's done admirably. I couldn't be prouder of him."
Mors then turned to Ser Daven Quarr, Master of Ships. "Daven, how goes it?"
Daven bowed. "Your Grace, all remains stable. Our six hundred warships are a formidable deterrent in the Narrow Sea, and we've had no major incidents. However, we've noticed an uptick in small skirmishes with Tyroshi vessels. Nothing serious yet, but I've dispatched Captain Davos to patrol the area."
Mors furrowed his brows. "Tyrosh has grown too strong since absorbing Myr. Are they becoming greedy for more?" he muttered rhetorically. Then he looked to Arodan. "Any word from Tyrosh?"
Arodan, the Spymaster of External Affairs, shook his head. "They've been cracking down on spies, so information has been scarce—but that alone speaks volumes. Combined with the new ships they're building in Myr, I suspect they're preparing for something. We should be ready in case it involves us."
Mors nodded toward Daven, who returned the gesture in silent understanding.
"Since Syenna isn't here, I'll speak with her later," Mors said. "Anything else? Ser Barristan—you were with me, so I doubt there's much. Uncle Lewyn?"
Lewyn shook his head. "Nothing, Your Grace. Lord Beric covered it."
Maester Torvian cleared his throat. "Your Grace, a letter arrived earlier today—from the Stormlands."
Mors frowned. "The Stormlands? Let me see."
The maester handed him the scroll. Mors broke the seal and read, then couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. "Amazing. We've had no communication since we thoroughly defeated them three years ago, and now Robert has the gall to invite me to his wedding with Princess Lyanna Stark. The letter almost reads like he's gloating."
Barristan frowned. "Your Grace, do you intend to go? We're technically still at war."
Mors shook his head. "Had it been anyone else, I wouldn't bother. But for Brandon and Ned's younger sister... I may need to consider it for their sake."
Arodan looked intrigued. "I'm surprised it's still happening. My understanding is that Princess Lyanna despises King Robert for his philandering ways."
Mors shrugged. "I'm sure she wouldn't choose it. Beneath all that warlike charisma, Robert is a degenerate truant—drinking, eating, whoring. But in this new age, alliances matter more than affection."
Lewyn's lips twitched. "Is that so, Your Grace? Then remind me—who are our allies?"
Mors chuckled. "No one said alliances must be sealed by marriage, Uncle. The Mountain and Vale, and the North, could be considered good allies. And fortunately, my name alone serves as a deterrent."
Lewyn rolled his eyes, though the faint smile on his face betrayed his amusement.
Mors looked around the table. "If there's nothing else, then—meeting adjourned. Thank you, everyone."
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Mors made his way to his chambers and collapsed onto his bed without even removing his clothes. Half an hour later, the door opened—and something small launched onto his back like a catapult.
"Hiya!"
"Ohhh! Daeron, you're getting too heavy to do that," Mors groaned, turning around just in time to grab the boy and start tickling him mercilessly. "How's that? Can my little knight withstand my ultimate technique? I'll have you know, I'm renowned across the Seven Kingdoms for this move!"
"Hahaha! I yield! I yield! Ahahaha!" Daeron gasped between laughs.
"Oh, what is this? To witness such a mighty duel between the great and small dragons of Dorne—surely only I, Ashara, am worthy of the honor!" Ashara declared in mock solemnity from the doorway.
Mors stopped tickling, letting Daeron catch his breath.
"Haha, you win this match, the day is yours," Daeron said dramatically, "but I'll return—and that day will be—"
He broke off with a yelp as Mors twitched his fingers threateningly, pretending to go for another tickle.
"Ahh!" Daeron leapt off the bed and bolted from the room, laughter echoing down the corridor as a Kingsguard and a pair of servants hurried after him.
Mors chuckled and shook his head.
Ashara smiled, stepping closer. "He's like a miniature version of you," she said softly, wrapping her arms around him.
Mors kissed her forehead. "And Syrena is a miniature version of you," he said with a grin.
The sound of children's laughter echoed faintly from down the hall—followed by a sudden crash.
"Oops! Uh… the statue just came out of nowhere!" Young Daeron was heard saying.
Ashara and Mors exchanged a look, then burst out laughing, shaking their heads.
"Well," Ashara sighed, still smiling, "let's go see what needs replacing now, sunny."
And so, the new age began.