Early 274 AC
Redmask Bay
Early Morning – The Final Assault
The sea roared around them, stripped of its usual calm and consumed by fire, smoke, and steel.
Mors stood at the helm of a Royal Warship, wind tugging at the loose strands of silver-blond hair beneath his helm, while the red-and-gold tassels of his helmet seem to move with a mind of his own. He wore his full assault gear, crimson and gold gleaming beneath the rising sun. To his left, Oberyn knelt—checking the tension of his bowstring. Behind, Manfrey tightened the grip on his shortblade, jaw clenched, eyes fierce.
The deck swayed beneath them, not from waves—but from the shudder of distant impact. Warships clashed to the west and south, sails torn, hulls cracked, cannons and catapults loosing fury into the burning sky. This was war.
All sixty men of the vanguard team stood ready behind Mors. The infiltration unit had reassembled—Tahlor and Idrin, blades bare and hungry; Nael and Veyra, steady at the front rank; Oberyn's and Manfrey's men, flanking close in formation. And forty Spears of the Sun, handpicked by Lewyn himself, arrayed behind them like a living blade drawn for the strike, Salor Rym calmy at their front.
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Redmask rose from the sea like a black wound—jagged cliffs, narrow beach, and three stone towers lined with mounted crossbows. Pirate ships clogged the harbor, anchored in a defensive arc. Some had already begun firing.
"Brace!" Jeremy barked from the helm. An enemy arrow thudded into the mast.
Across the water, ballistas cranked into position. On two of the larger Dornish vessels, special mounts locked into place—heavy iron balls joined by thick chains sat on modified sleds. Crews shouted, pulled back the winches, and lit the signal flares.
"Fire!" came the call.
The first chain-ball volley cut the air like a thunderclap—spinning iron and steel hurling from the mounted ballistas. It smashed into the forward mast of a Tyroshi-built warship with a crunch of timber. The chain wrapped the mast and yanked it sideways. Sail, rigging, and deck beams went with it. The ship pitched and stalled, spinning into its neighbor.
A second volley hit another vessel broadside—tearing down its sail and collapsing its archery nest. Cries of panic rose. The ship turned into a wall of dead wood and tangled men.
"Again!" shouted the captain nearby.
Mors didn't watch the next shot. He turned to his unit. "Boarding crews—on me!"
Their warship closed on the easternmost galley. Arrows whistled overhead. One member of the Spears took a bolt to the shoulder and dropped. Another grabbed his shield and kept climbing. Grapples flew.
"Go!" Mors roared, leaping first.
They landed hard—a crash of boots on wet planks, blades already swinging. Pirates rushed forward, but they weren't ready for sixty elite warriors led by a prince with 'divine strength pumping through their veins'.
Mors fought at the front. His aura radiated outward—sharpening minds, boosting reflexes, reinforcing every muscle. Spears moved faster. Shields blocked strikes they shouldn't have seen. Oberyn vaulted the railing, landed in a roll, and swept a man's legs with a hooked blade. Manfrey followed behind, smashing with his shield before stabbing twice, clean and brutal.
"Grapple the next ship!" Jeremy shouted. "Their sails are still intact!"
The Spears surged forward. The pirates broke—some diving into the water, others cut down where they stood.
They lashed onto the next ship fast, the grappling hooks drawing both decks tight together. It tilted slightly with the strain, but it worked—creating a wider platform, bridging the gap. The fight spread across both vessels.
This second ship was smaller, more agile—perfect for landing.
The last pirates aboard were dispatched quickly. Salor turned. "Back around!"
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Across the bay, another chain-ball launched.
It arced through the air and smashed into the cliffside—not to demolish, but to destabilize. Dust and loose stone exploded outward, rubble peppering the lower tower.
Nearby, a Dornish warship closed in—its deck lined with archers taking aim.
The pirate harbor was coming apart. Ships burned. Crews fled. Screams echoed off the water.
"Mors!" Salor Rym's voice rang out. "Shore team's landing now! We clear the gate!"
"Push through!" Mors shouted.
With the captured ship now theirs, they turned its prow toward the beach. Archers fired in volleys from their deck as chain-balls smashed more masts and hulls behind them—cutting off any pursuit. Fires raged across the harbor. The chaos behind them sealed their path.
And Redmask's beach… was next.
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Redmask Shore
Moments Later
The beach was narrow—a black strip of stone and packed sand hemmed in by cliffs—and every inch of it was in range of the towers above.
But the Spears didn't wait.
Three longboats hit the shore in unison, keels grinding hard as boots splashed into shallow surf. Spears of the Sun disembarked in waves, shields up, eyes forward. Mors was at the front, dripping seawater, shortblade in hand, Solaris strapped tight across his back.
"Form up!" Salor Rym shouted. "Tower fire in ten—move!"
Bolts rained down from the cliffs. Heavy crossbows mounted on the towers punched through sand and stone with terrifying force. One man lost a leg. Another dropped without a sound.
Mors didn't flinch. He pointed forward and surged into a sprint, aura pulsing wide.
"Go now!"
His projected aura wrapped the first twenty soldiers behind him, sharpening their instincts, dulling the fear rising in their throats. They moved faster. Hit harder. Thought clearer.
Manfrey smashed through the first wooden barrier at the base of the cliff. Oberyn hurled a spear upward, hitting a watchman mid-turn. He didn't scream—just fell.
The second wave hit the beach—Jeremy, Salor, and twenty more Spears. Arrows sliced the air overhead. Shields locked. Spears punched back. A fire arrow hit a cart near the rocks—it exploded in a burst of oil and flame, throwing sand into the air.
"Climb line—north wall!" Salor bellowed.
Two squads broke left, racing toward the rope ladders already fired by ballista bolts into the cliffside hours earlier. The ropes had held. Barely.
Mors turned to his team. "With me. We break their gate."
He didn't wait. Charging through the lower path, he slammed shoulder-first into a reinforced door built into the cliff's base. It cracked. Two Spears ran forward with a makeshift ram—a stripped mast turned battering pole—and smashed it again. A third hit splintered the wood.
Then it gave.
Pirates waited behind it—screaming, weapons raised: axes, swords, and spears ready to strike.
Then came the flash.
One of the Spears hurled a fire flask—an experimental incendiary: flammable oil sealed in a glass bottle, with a cloth fuse lit at the mouth. They hadn't brought many—just two or three. But this was why.
It shattered on the stone, and fire bloomed in an instant.
Screams echoed. Flames clung to skin. Smoke filled the air. The front line of pirates broke into panic as men burned where they stood.
Mors didn't hesitate.
He crashed into them like a hammer through glass—blade rising, elbow smashing, boot driving into chests. He reversed his spear and slammed the butt into a jaw, then flowed into another strike without pause. Every movement powered by aura and instinct, battle-drilled to perfection.
The Spears surged after him.
Manfrey slammed one man into the wall, ran him through, and kept moving. Oberyn kicked a screaming pirate back down the slope, then ducked and drove his curved blade under another's ribs.
Inside the tunnel—it was chaos.
A bloody, one-sided rout.
"Keep going! Now!" Mors roared.
The third wave of Spears surged through the breached passage—fewer than when they began. Redmask's lower defenses had fallen.
Above them, the towers still loomed.
They were next.
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Redmask Pirate Fort — Inner Tower Breach
Just after the main gate is overrun
Smoke curled through the narrow corridors of the cliffside keep. Blood streaked the walls, stone cracked from impacts, bodies twisted in the narrow halls. But the Spears pressed on.
They had one target now: the central tower—the command point of Redmask.
"Push!" Mors shouted, voice raw. "Form up, we breach now!"
They reached the interior stairwell—spiraling, tight, steep. Manfrey took point, clearing the first two levels with brutal efficiency. Tahlor and Idrin moved like shadows. Nael and Veyra held the rear. Every footstep thudded with purpose.
From the top, the clang of metal and the thrum of crossbows rang out.
They were waiting.
Mors didn't care.
He turned to Salor and Jeremy. "You with me?"
The old lieutenant grinned, blood trickling from his lip. "To the end."
Jeremy nodded. "Right behind you."
Nael and Veyra exchanged a look, sighed, and followed without a word.
They burst through the final door—into chaos.
The top of the tower was a circular platform, open to the wind and sky, flanked by two mounted ballistas and a dozen armored defenders. Arrows hissed across the space. Spears clashed. Two men fell instantly.
Mors charged straight for the left ballista team. His aura flared, a tight wave of force—every man near him felt the surge. Their limbs moved faster. Their minds sharpened.
Steel rang.
Oberyn vaulted over the battlements, taking a pirate down mid-spin. Manfrey engaged a twin-axe brute near the second ballista. Qyros flanked from the far side.
Mors reached the base of the left ballista, blade raised—
—and the floor gave way.
A trapdoor collapsed beneath his boots. He dropped three feet, catching himself mid-fall—but the movement threw off his timing.
He looked up just in time to see it.
The ballista turned. Point-blank. Aimed at his chest.
Too close. No time to dodge.
But something hit him first.
Salor.
The lieutenant slammed into him from the side—a blur of armor and instinct—and shoved Mors just out of the line.
CRACK!
The bolt slammed through Salor's chest, lifting him off the ground and impaling him against the inner wall. The force split wood and stone. Blood sprayed.
Mors hit the floor hard, skidding across stone.
The edge of the bolt sliced through his armor, grazing his ribs—deep enough to draw blood, not deep enough to kill. On anyone else, it would've shattered bone.
The world slowed.
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. For a breath, everything felt unreal—tilted, distant.
Nael and Veyra closed ranks around him, blades drawn, eyes scanning.
Jeremy was already moving, shoving past wreckage and bodies to reach him.
Mors scrambled upright, breath ragged, eyes wide.
"Salor—"
The old knight was pinned like a banner, still breathing—but barely.
Mors rushed to him, already reaching with his aura, trying to feed the energy into his body, to heal, to boost, to stabilize—
Salor's hand clutched Mors's forearm.
"Don't," he rasped.
Blood dripped from his lips. His voice was weak—but steady.
"I know… what you're trying… to do. Don't. I'm… too far gone."
Mors's jaw clenched, teeth grinding. "No. You don't know that."
Salor shook his head. "Save your strength… for them. For the others. Keep them going…"
His hand slipped slightly, losing grip.
"I did… my job…"
A faint smile. A final breath.
"Proud of y—"
His head dropped. Still. Silent. Gone.
Mors stood there, blood on his hands, breath shaking.
Then he closed Salor's eyes, stood straight, and turned back toward the battle—expression hard, focused, unreadable.
He picked up Solaris, the spear Jeremy had given him. Despite the blood, it gleamed in his hand—freshly polished, made for moments like this.
"Clear the rest!" he bellowed, voice like iron. "Take this tower. For Dorne."
And then he lunged—fire in his eyes, Solaris in hand.
This was the last battle.
The pirates—and every enemy of Dorne—would learn the truth:
That Dorne stands. Dorne fights. Dorne endures.
Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.