The ships docked in silence just after dawn. No fanfare, just the soft lapping of waves and the creak of worn hulls brushing Sunspear's stone piers.
As the rescued were helped off—shivering, hungry, eyes wide with disbelief—the men of the Spears broke into quiet motion. Supplies were distributed. Wounds were dressed. The freed captives were ushered to warmth and rest.
Mors stepped onto the pier, gaze heavy. Jeremy landed beside him with quiet steadiness, Lieutenant Salor close behind. Behind them, the others began to disembark.
Manfrey said nothing.
He stood for a moment near the rail, eyes distant, fists clenched—then turned away.
"I'm going to the training grounds," he muttered without looking back.
Mors, Oberyn, and Jeremy watched him go.
Oberyn exhaled. "I'll accompany him. He'll need someone to be with him, even if he won't say it."
Mors gave a tired smile and nodded. "Don't let him break his wrist on a tree."
"No promises," Oberyn said, and walked off after his cousin.
Mors turned toward the keep. "Let's go."
Jeremy and Salor followed without a word.
–––––––––––––––––
They found Doran Martell in the solar, a room now transformed into the beating heart of Dorne's war. The meeting had ended not long before—the chamber still smelled faintly of ink, wax, and sweat.
Doran stood at the long table, leaning over a map of the Stepstones. Battle markers littered its surface—some freshly moved, others clustered where decisions still hung in the air. He didn't look up at first, still absorbed in the quiet weight of command.
Mellario sat nearby, sorting documents and handwritten accounts. Elia leaned close beside Doran, pointing to a new courier dispatch.
Princess Loreza reclined in a high-backed chair in the corner, dressed in quiet dignity. She no longer wore her full ceremonial attire. Her posture was regal, but her eyes gave her away—dark, tired, watching the door even as she gave counsel.
And behind them all stood Areo Hotah, silent as ever, a mountain of stillness with a poleaxe at his side.
When Mors entered, the room changed.
Faces lifted. The tension in the air shifted—ever so slightly. The firelight danced differently against the brass fittings of the table.
But when they realized Oberyn and Manfrey weren't with him, a ripple of concern passed through the room.
Mors gave a soft sigh. "The mission was a success. The captives are safe. But... Mellei wasn't there."
Loreza closed her eyes.
"Manfrey took it hard," Mors continued. "He went to train. Or hit something. Oberyn followed him."
The room fell still. No one spoke. After three months, the hope of finding Mellei alive had thinned to a thread. The best-case scenario—the one none of them dared voice—was that she had died quickly. Without pain. Without suffering.
Doran pressed his fingers together, gaze distant but sharp.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Mors stepped forward and gestured to Salor.
"We found fifteen captives, mostly smallfolk, including Ser Qerrin Toland, recently gone missing during a skirmish. There was no sign of Mellei, but..." He reached into his pouch and pulled out the leather-bound ledger.
He placed it on the table.
"We found this. It's coded, but we managed to trace a few names. Dornish prisoners were moved—shipped northeast. Maybe to Tyrosh, or another island. The handwriting is clean, educated. The transfers weren't random. They were methodical. Coordinated. Maybe even part of a network."
Salor added, "The compound was lightly guarded. We timed the strike with Lord Lewyn's assault to pull their strength away—it worked perfectly."
Doran opened the ledger slowly, flipping through the brittle pages, his brow furrowed.
Jeremy spoke next. "This was just one link in the chain. Whoever's moving these captives is doing so with support. Gold. Ships. Possibly nobles."
Loreza finally spoke, her voice like parchment catching flame. "And they might still have her."
No one corrected her. No one disagreed.
Doran closed the ledger gently. His gaze lifted—to the young warrior who had now led three successful infiltrations. To Mors.
He would have much preferred someone else carry this burden. But the truth was clear—Mors's role in the future of Dorne would be immense. That path was already forming beneath his feet.
Doran knew what he had to do. He needed to help shape him now—prepare him to be the Tip of the Spear against the many threats rising against them.
Their eyes met and held—for a moment, nothing needed to be said.
Then Doran smiled, just faintly, and gave a quiet nod.
Mors returned it with a small smile of his own.
–––––––––––––––––
The war council convened that afternoon in Sunspear's high chamber—stone walls draped in sun-stitched banners, the long table cleared of every map, scroll, and seal not tied to war.
Everyone was there.
Doran sat at the head, flanked by Princess Loreza and Mellario, with Elia beside them, quill in hand. Areo Hotah stood behind, a still shadow at her back. Jeremy Norridge remained near the rear doors, keeping watch while listening in. Manfrey sat stiffly on Mors's right, arms crossed, the red still not faded from his knuckles.
Lewyn Martell arrived just past midday, still in worn battle gear, dust and dried sea spray clinging to his shoulders. Behind him came five others—Lieutenant Salor Rym, and four commanders from the Spears of the Sun:
Ser Daven Quarr, a harsh-jawed veteran from Skyreach known for his mountain-born grit.
Laera Sand, a tall woman with a scar from brow to cheek and a voice like sandpaper—deadly with a spear.
Tolen Vyr, youngest of the lieutenants but fast, clever, and relentless in battle.
Qyros of the Scour, a silent Stepstones-born killer once thought to be dead—brought back to Dorne and given purpose under Lewyn's command.
Lewyn stepped forward, cleared his throat, and began.
"The attack was a success. We were nearly evenly matched, but as you all know—direct engagement isn't their strength. We lost two patrol ships, one Dornish warship—though it may still be salvageable—and one of the Crown's warships was badly damaged. Over a tenth of our force is dead or wounded."
The room was solemn at that.
He paused. "The pirates lost far more. Up to half, by our count. Their main harbor was in flames when we pulled out. We had help, though not by design."
Doran raised an eyebrow. "The Volantenes?"
Lewyn nodded. "Volantis-backed pirates struck just after we engaged. Then they were hit by another pirate faction. Pure chaos. We used the distraction to break their lines."
He sighed. "But that also meant we had to deal with the second group before we could pull out."
Mors leaned forward. "No wonder the Stepstones are so difficult to hold. What about the Volantenes?"
"They didn't stay," Lewyn said. "But neither did the enemy. A large force slipped away in the chaos—fell back to their final stronghold."
"Which island?" Elia asked softly.
"Redmask," Laera Sand replied without hesitation.
Lewyn nodded. "That's right. Redmask." He stood and pointed to the map, tapping a position northeast of the other islands. "Fortified. Blackstone cliffs. Narrow landing. Hundreds of men. Three towers with mounted crossbows. No easy way in."
Mors stepped in. "Northeast of the island we infiltrated last night." He looked around the room. "The intel we recovered pointed in that direction. We might find something."
At that, Manfrey straightened slightly, eyes alert.
Doran noticed too—but schooled his reaction, voice calm. "That may be true. But let's not get our hopes up until we see what's there."
The room settled again.
"Go on, Lewyn," Doran said.
Lewyn inclined his head. "We pursued, but more pirates came—opportunists. We had to split the fleet. Half held them off while the rest secured the second island. We returned as soon as we could."
He looked across the table. "Two islands cleared. One remains."
A beat of silence followed.
Everyone in the room understood what that meant.
Doran exhaled slowly through his nose. "We can't hold them."
Loreza gave him a sharp look—but after a pause, nodded. "Don't keep them in suspense, Doran. Explain."
"If we claim these islands," Doran said, "the Free Cities will see it as Westeros expanding into Essosi waters. And the Crown will accuse Dorne of acting above its station—of carving out its own kingdom."
"It's not an accusation if it's true," Manfrey muttered.
Mors's jaw clenched.
He looked around the room. "So we bleed for a cause we can't claim? Burn a pirate nest to the ground, free our people, and leave the ashes for someone else to sweep up?"
No one answered.
He stood. "Then if we can't take the islands—we must take something. We've captured a few ships already. That should become a top priority. Every engagement going forward should focus on seizing vessels. Prisoners, if possible. But especially ships. Galleys. Warships. Transports. Anything with sails or hull."
Doran tilted his head. "You want to build a navy."
"No," Mors said. "I want to take one."
Jeremy smiled faintly. Salor Rym gave the slightest approving nod.
Mors continued, his voice calm but commanding. "We're not a naval power. We never have been. But this war won't end with fire and sand alone. We need to control the sea—or at least stop others from using it against us."
Lewyn glanced at Doran. "He's right."
"Then we build the plan," Doran said quietly.
He looked to the map, then to Lewyn and his lieutenants. "Redmask is next. But this time, we take more than prisoners. We take ships. And we leave nothing that sails behind."
Lewyn hesitated—just for a breath. Doran noticed.
"Lewyn?" he prompted, voice low.
Lewyn looked across the room… then to Mors, standing beside him—tall, strong, steady, princely. He seemed to weigh something unspoken… and then gave a small nod.
"We'll need Mors to lead the vanguard this time."
The room stilled.
Loreza rose in an instant, her voice sharp and full of fire. "Absolutely not!"
She stepped forward like a lioness guarding her cub. "Lewyn, what is wrong with you?"
Elia jolted to her feet. Mellario's face tightened with worry. Even Jeremy's brow furrowed, a rare frown etched into his normally composed features.
Doran seemed momentarily caught off guard by the request. He didn't speak—but he didn't shut it down either. Instead, he watched Mors, and then Lewyn, eyes narrowing in thought as the room began to erupt into overlapping objections.
Mors said nothing—for now. He had seen Doran's expression: focused, thoughtful. Not dismissing. Considering.
"Please," Doran said at last, raising his hand. His voice cut through the noise. "Enough."
The room quieted.
"This is a serious suggestion—and I understand why Lewyn is making it." He turned to the older knight. "Everyone here knows that, for all his rough edges, Lewyn genuinely cares for us. He wouldn't put one of us in danger unless he truly believed there was no better option. Right, Lewyn?"
Lewyn nodded. "That's right, Doran. I would never risk any of you lightly. But Mors might be the most resilient fighter among us. And more than that…"
He looked around the chamber. "Anyone within his range fights harder, faster, longer. We've all seen it. We need the vanguard to break through and end this quickly. If Mors leads it, we minimize casualties. We finish this war."
Mors stepped forward, fist to chest in a firm military salute.
"Mors is ready to take this task. But I'll only move with men I trust—my squad and the Spears. I don't want word of my abilities spreading more than necessary."
Doran's expression turned grave. He glanced briefly at Loreza—who was absolutely not sulking, but clearly not pleased—then gave a slow nod.
"Then you will lead the vanguard, Mors. May the gods be with you."
And just like that, Mors stepped into the light—not just as a prince of Dorne, or the leader of a shadow-born strike team… but as its spearpoint.