Late 273 AC - Three months later.
The sea was calm, unnervingly so.
Two black-sailed patrol ships, painted in black, skimmed across moonlit waters like whispers made flesh, hulls cutting the waves without sound. Above, no lanterns burned. Only the stars and a sliver of moon cast faint silver across the dark sea.
Mors stood at the prow of the lead ship, armored in the tight-fitting assault gear of the Spears—flexible, reinforced, designed for stealth and speed. No spear slung across his back tonight. Only a shortblade and twin daggers hidden beneath his sash and leg. Every step had to be quiet. Every breath, controlled.
Behind him, Oberyn crouched on a coil of rope, checking the edge of his curved dagger. "Gods, I love night raids," he whispered. "Moonlight, knives, and a chance to scare some bastard slavers half to death."
"Only half?" Manfrey said from his crouch beside the mast. "You're going soft."
"I said 'half to death,' not 'half alive.' There's a difference."
Mors ignored the exchange, eyes fixed on the approaching island. The silhouette of rocky cliffs and sparse brush gave way to a faint flicker of firelight—one torch, maybe two, near the upper ridge. The compound was just ahead.
He turned as Jeremy appeared beside him, silent despite his frame.
"All units ready," the older knight murmured. "In position. On your call."
Mors gave a short nod. "Once we hit land, we move fast—stick to the designated path. If they notice us, it's already too late."
Behind them, the team moved into final formation—silent, focused, ready.
Tahlor and Idrin, two handpicked recruits for Mors's personal guard. Both trained killers. Quiet, fast, surgical. Idrin, rumor had it, was the younger brother of a Planky Town courtesan Oberyn used to visit.
Nael and Veyra, Mors's original guards—no longer green, still loyal, and now far sharper than they had any right to be.
Oberyn's pair, lean fighters from Ghoyan Drohe, favoring curved blades and throat-level strikes.
Manfrey's duo, brothers from Salt Shore—stoic, methodical, and unnervingly in sync.
And eight Spears of the Sun, led by Lieutenant Salor Rym—a scarred veteran with two decades under Lewyn Martell. Hard, disciplined, ruthless when needed. Salor was Mors's second-in-command tonight—Lewyn's orders.
Mors inhaled, long and steady.
'Now.'
He raised two fingers. The signal.
The two boats split, gliding toward opposite ends of the cove. As their hulls kissed the shallows, boots met sand with the soft crunch of discipline. They disembarked quickly—low, wide, silent. No chainmail to give them away. Only tight assault gear, fast hands, and quiet steps. Shields were slung tight across their backs, snug enough not to rattle. Every motion had been drilled. Every breath measured.
Lewyn's fleet was striking five miles to the south at this very moment—this was the second major engagement, and unlike the first assault, it wasn't an ambush. It was direct, overwhelming, and designed to break their lines.
If this outpost was worth anything, its commanders would have sent reinforcements.
Which meant the compound ahead was likely undermanned.
Still deadly. Still dangerous—especially with three princes of Dorne in the field. But vulnerable.
The team moved up the slope in two waves.
As they approached the outer ridge, the first enemy appeared—a pirate guard, yawning, torch in hand.
Tahlor struck first, a blur of movement.
One hand around the man's mouth, the other driving a dagger under his ribs. The guard dropped without sound. Idrin caught the torch before it hit the ground.
Mors waved the team forward. They passed through the first line of brush and reached the perimeter wall—half-broken stone, knee-height, probably meant to pen animals.
Inside, faint voices. Metal clinking. A fire.
They fanned out.
Mors moved beside Jeremy, Oberyn close behind. Salor and the Spears circled toward the north flank. Manfrey's unit drifted south. The goal was simple: breach the compound, secure the captives, kill any pirate filth they found, and extract before reinforcements could arrive.
Oberyn whispered, "I'll take the left tower."
Mors nodded. "Don't die."
"Tonight is not the night I die."
Mors sighed, muttering under his breath, "Gods, don't say that…"
In the next breath, Oberyn melted into the shadows, his guards trailing after him like ghosts.
The plan went into motion.
Two guards patrolled the gate. Idrin flung a small stone to the left—both men turned. Veyra and Nael struck from the right, blades flashing, clean kills.
The gate creaked open.
Inside was a crude compound—three buildings, a corral, and a pit. The stench of sweat and salt hung heavy in the air. Most of the pirates were asleep in the main structure. A smaller shack held something that made Mors's blood rise.
Cages.
Humans. Gaunt, dirty, chained.
One woman spotted them and froze, eyes wide with disbelief. Another called out in broken Valyrian, "Help… help…"
Jeremy stepped forward, already at work on the lock.
Suddenly—shouts.
"Enemies!"
A pirate heard some noise, stumbled out of the longhouse—saw the open gate, saw the figures in black—and screamed.
Steel rang.
Everything exploded.
Oberyn struck from above, leaping off the tower roof with a salvaged spear in hand. He landed in a crouch—fluid, deadly—and two pirates fell before they could draw breath. Without pause, he flowed into motion, engaging the next man in a blur of steel and fury.
The Spears surged forward. Mors led the charge, his aura pulsing outward—subtle, unseen, but potent. The team had been briefed and drilled under its influence. He maintained it at the lowest level he could sustain in extended combat—just enough to sharpen reflexes, steady hands, and hold fatigue at bay. And even at that level, it was devastatingly effective.
Manfrey took the east side. His team flanked fast, cutting through confused pirates. Salor's Spears cleaved through a second group trying to rally from the forge. Tahlor and Idrin worked like twin shadows, slicing through anyone who turned their back.
Mors engaged the captain—a hulking brute with a spiked mace.
They circled, Mors dual-wielding his short sword and dagger. The pirate struck first—Mors dodged the initial blow, slipped beneath the second, and drove his dagger—held in a reverse grip—deep into the man's thigh. The pirate howled and lunged. Mors pivoted, slammed a boot into his chest, then followed with a clean slash across the throat from his short sword. Blood sprayed. The man crumpled.
Mors yanked the dagger free and moved on.
Jeremy held the center—cutting, guarding, covering. For a moment he looked like a younger man again: fierce, focused, whole.
The last pirate turned to run.
Mors dropped him with a dagger to the back—then walked over, ensured the man was dead, and calmly retrieved the blade.
Silence fell.
The men looked at Mors with quiet admiration. From behind, standing at 6'0" (183 cm) in his Spears of the Sun armor, with strands of platinum-blond and silver hair escaping his helmet, he looked like a god of war. And with his divine powers amplifying their abilities, it was easy to believe he truly was.
"Sweep the area—no stragglers," Mors ordered.
The captives stared through the bars.
"We're here to get you out," Mors said.
They didn't believe it at first.
Until one sobbed. Then another.
Then they reached through the bars, clawing at the air as if afraid he'd vanish.
Jeremy broke the locks.
"We've got fifteen," he said. "Mostly women, and two children. One of them is Ser Qerrin Toland—a knight from a lesser branch of House Toland. He's unconscious. Injured, but alive… no sign of Mellei."
Mors's jaw tightened. "Anything else?"
Manfrey emerged from the side room with a bundle of scrolls.
"A ledger. Coded—but it mentions movement. Several Dornish names, grouped separately. A ship left last week. It sailed northeast."
"To Myr?"
"Not sure. Could be another island in the Stepstones—maybe even Tyrosh. It doesn't say."
Manfrey cursed in frustration under his breath. Oberyn placed a bloodied hand on his shoulder—a steadying touch, firm and grounding—but said nothing.
Mors stared at the fire, his mind calculating. 'This isn't the end. Just another link in the chain. But we need to move—fast.'
The Spears moved quickly—gathering survivors, binding wounds, stripping the bodies for usable gear. Quick and efficient. No prisoners.
As they prepared to withdraw, Mors stood at the center of the blood-streaked courtyard.
His heart was steady. His mind clear.
"Move out," he said firmly, wiping his blade. "We'll take the long route—no risks with any pirates retreating this way."
It's been three months since Dorne decided to attack the pirate. The first two were spent gathering ships, selecting troops, drawing up campaign plans, and reinforcing merchant vessels to serve as makeshift transports.
Dorne is not a naval power—unfortunately. Their entire fleet consisted of:
5 Dornish warships (capacity: 50–75 each)
15 patrol boats (capacity: 10–15 each)
20 merchant ships (capacity: 100–160 each)
That was it. Not much of a fleet, but it had sufficed—so far.
Five merchant ships were seized and refitted as dedicated transport vessels for military use, while the rest had to remain in service for trade to keep Dorne's economy functional.
The additional five Royal Warships sent from King's Landing, though technically a token gesture, proved useful. Each carried 75–100 men and deployed 25 royal marines apiece—enough to reinforce key missions. Their presence helped, though some friction arose between the Dornish ranks and the Crown's men.
One warship and five patrol boats remained in Dorne to defend the coast. The two patrol boats repurposed for Mors's infiltration tonight came from this detachment.
In total, over 1,800 troops—including the Spears of the Sun—have been deployed across the Stepstones. Another 1,200 hold garrison positions at key defensive points in Dorne, ready to rotate into the front.
Lewyn Martell had been appointed overall commander and Admiral of the campaign. Nine of his lieutenants were assigned to lead larger detachments, with the Spears of the Sun serving as elite strike units under their command.
One such unit was designated for infiltration operations, placed under the leadership of Mors. Oberyn had initially been considered for the role, but he himself admitted he lacked the temperament. Manfrey was ruled out as well—too emotionally compromised by recent losses.
So the honor—and the burden—fell to Mors.
And with him, Lieutenant Salor Rym, the Spears' most seasoned veteran, was named co-lead and advisor.
A month ago, Dorne launched a devastating surprise assault that wiped out nearly a quarter of the pirates stationed in the region. The strike was a tactical success—but it shattered the balance of power in the Stepstones.
Since then, the region has become a powder keg:
Volantis-backed pirates responded by forming a loose "alliance" with Dorne—an arrangement cunningly orchestrated by Doran to divide the chaos. They began attacking rival factions from the east, though their true motives remain suspect.
Lys-backed captains declared neutrality, but quickly turned to opportunistic raids wherever advantage beckoned.
Myrish pirates, reeling from their losses in the initial assault, began regrouping and rebuilding—covertly instigating support through spies and whispers. A number of Tyroshi ships answered their call, claiming old debts or shared grudges.
Yet other Tyroshi crews stayed true to form—opportunists to the core. They struck wherever profit glimmered, shifting allegiances as easily as their gaudy sails.
And the independents, loyal to no city and no flag, did what they always had: looted, burned, and vanished into smoke.
The Stepstones had always been lawless.
But now—they were burning.