Redmask Fortress — Three Hours Later
The Wind Howled Across the Blackstone Cliffs
The battle was over.
Redmask had fallen.
Smoke trailed from scorched towers. The eastern bastion still burned, a faint orange smolder casting shadows over the corpses strewn across the main courtyard. The dead lay in heaps—pirates, Dornish, Crown men alike.
Mors stood on a rampart, looking down from the central tower, blood still drying on his armor. They had done it—but it had come at a cost.
Below, Nael sat slumped against the wreckage of a shattered ballista. His left arm was gone below the elbow—cleanly wrapped, but soaked through. Jeremy crouched beside him, jaw clenched, saying nothing. The healer had done all he could.
Nael's fighting days were over.
Beside him, a body lay beneath a cloak.
Veyra.
Dead.
The two guards who had watched over Mors for more than a decade—one crippled, the other gone.
Because Mors had wanted the vanguard. Had insisted on leading from the front.
Tahlor and Idrin were bloodied but upright.
Manfrey limped, supported by a somber Oberyn—his thigh gashed deep, still bleeding through the wrap.
Tahlor's shoulderplate was split and dented, but he'd live. They all would.
Two Spears from Laera's detachment hadn't made it.
Qyros hadn't said a word since the breach. Just stood vigil over Salor's body, refusing to leave. A decade ago, Salor had spared him—and given him purpose.
Mors could feel the strain—his aura had been burning for hours, holding wounds together, easing pain, pushing back death. He was beyond tired.
Across the courtyard, a company of Spears dragged a pirate captain from a storage vault—bloodied, bound, barely conscious.
Lewyn approached from the lower levels, boots heavy with dust and blood. His brow was creased, his armor scratched and dented. Behind him, three lieutenants moved with purpose—sweeping the keep, floor by floor.
"Uncle…" Mors asked without turning. "Final tally?"
Lewyn exhaled slowly. "Fourteen Spears dead. Seven Crown men. Two dozen more too wounded to fight again this campaign."
Mors gave a single nod, his jaw tight, eyes forward.
Lewyn continued, voice low.
"The keep is ours. They're still combing the lower catacombs. Found a cache of food, supplies, and artifacts—everything neatly packed, like they were preparing to move. There's a barred chamber too. Might be captives inside. They're working to get it open now."
Several heads turned at that. Even the wounded seemed to stir.
"Let me know when they do," Mors said, tiredly but firmly.
Lewyn's eyes drifted to Salor's body—now wrapped in a red-and-gold cloak, laid with care. His expression was hard to read.
"He died like he lived. Straight. Unflinching. Loyal to the end. He was a good friend."
Mors didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was low but steady.
"I was reckless…he saved me. Without hesitation."
Lewyn stepped closer, resting a hand on Mors's shoulder.
"And because he did, the vanguard held. The fortress fell. Dorne has one less monster's nest to worry about."
Mors finally turned to face him, unreadable.
"And fewer men to protect it."
A gust of sea wind swept through the shattered tower.
It rustled the banner that had been hung above the ramparts—the spear and sun of Dorne—now flying over black stone.
It fluttered above the ruins of Redmask.
Victory was theirs.
But it was paid in blood.
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Redmask Fortress — Lower Keep, Interrogation Hall
The torches lining the hall flickered as Lewyn, Mors, Oberyn, and Jeremy made their way toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. The air was damp with salt and sweat, and the scent of blood lingered in the stones. Manfrey remained behind, his thigh injury being tended by the maesters.
They were halfway down when the sound stopped them cold.
A rasping, guttural laugh echoed from the other side—pained and wet, half-choked by whatever wounds the pirate had already received. Still, it pushed through, feral and mocking.
"Hah… ha-ha… aye… I remember her…" the pirate captain wheezed between coughs and spitting blood. "Didn't have a good time, no she didn't… our special treatment broke 'er in two. Couldn't even finish patchin' up my whole crew 'fore she crumbled dead… like the noble bitch she was…"
A violent, strained cough, then more laughter.
"Might be a piece o' her still floatin' round the reef. Or in some shark's belly, hahahah—!"
CRACK.
A muffled impact followed by a grunt of pain cut the laughter short.
Inside, the "interrogation" resumed.
Mors stopped in place, breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, the blood draining from his face. That couldn't be real. That couldn't be her.
Behind him, Oberyn froze mid-step. For a heartbeat, nothing—then his entire body tensed like a bowstring, trembling with rage.
"No," he breathed.
And then he ran.
"Oberyn—!" Lewyn called out, but it was too late. The younger prince stormed down the hall, boots slamming against the stone, murder in every step.
Lewyn exhaled slowly, his broad shoulders heavy with sorrow. He closed his eyes for a long second before following at a walk, each step solemn.
Jeremy stood still, jaw clenched, his face unreadable. Only his eyes betrayed the weight of the words they'd just heard—eyes that had seen war, loss, betrayal. He turned to Mors.
"Come along, my prince," Jeremy murmured, the words thick with regret. "We need to verify this… whether we want to or not."
Mors didn't respond. He stared at the door ahead, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. That voice. That laugh. The image it conjured burned into his mind like a brand.
'If that bastard is lying, I'll tear the truth from what's left of him. And if he's not…'
Another scream rang out behind the door. This time, it wasn't the pirate's.
It was Oberyn.
Not in pain.
In fury.
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Sunspear — One Day Later
The gates of Sunspear opened to roaring cheers.
Sunlight poured over the sandstone walls, casting golden halos on the returning column. Banners flapped in the breeze—red and gold, the sun and spear raised high. Spears of the Sun rode tall, bloodied but proud. Crown men marched behind, exhausted yet smiling. The war was over.
Victory was theirs.
And the city welcomed them with open arms.
Children ran along the edges of the procession. Merchants tossed coins and citrus into the streets. Dancers moved barefoot atop warm flagstones, and pipers played the old Dornish hymns of triumph and vengeance.
But not all celebrated.
At the head of the column, Mors rode in silence, offering the occasional nod to those who called his name—but nothing more.
Oberyn rode beside him, face set like carved stone. His usual fire was muted—coiled, unreadable. Still, he managed a few half-hearted waves, more out of habit than spirit.
Lewyn's helm hung from his saddlehorn, eyes forward, features drawn.
Jeremy rode just behind them, his armor polished but his expression dark.
Manfrey followed in a covered cart, his thigh bound tight, body upright but soul withdrawn. He did not wave. He did not speak. The boy who had laughed with Oberyn beneath the Water Gardens was gone.
Tahlor and Idrin flanked them on foot, weapons at their sides, scanning the crowd with silent vigilance.
The rest of the Martell guard moved in formation behind them, shields polished, spears raised in triumph.
The Princes of Dorne did not interrupt the celebration.
But they did not join it either.
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Sunspear — Throne Hall
The Court of Sunspear stood in full regalia.
Prince Doran, the acting regent, sat upon the raised throne, formal and still, the weight of rulership heavy on his shoulders.
To his right stood Princess Loreza—her face lined with age and worry, her eyes tired yet proud, fixed intently on her son.
To his left, Mellario of Norvos watched with quiet focus.
The trumpets sounded.
The hall doors opened.
Lewyn stepped in first, head held high. Mors and Oberyn walked beside him, their steps measured and steady.
Jeremy and a limping Manfrey followed close behind, their pace slower, the air around them solemn.
Tahlor and Idrin held their post at the entrance, as did the rest of the Martell guard—silent sentinels against the stone.
The court fell into respectful silence.
"Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne—Commander and Admiral of the Dornish forces, Captain of the Spears of the Sun," the herald declared, voice ringing through the hall.
"Prince Oberyn Martell. Prince Mors Martell. Prince Manfrey Martell. Ser Jeremy Norridge... and the leaders of the Southern Stepstones campaign."
They knelt in unison.
Prince Doran rose.
"Rise, warriors of Dorne."
They stood as one.
Doran's voice was calm, but it carried clearly through the chamber. He gave a single nod to Lewyn.
Lewyn stepped forward, lifting his chin. His voice rang with solemn strength:
"We return victorious from our campaign. Victory... and Vengeance are Ours!"
Cheers erupted through the court. A few Dornish lords pressed their hands to their chests in salute. The sound rolled through the hall like a crashing wave.
Once the clamor settled, Doran continued.
"You fought with honor. You led with courage. You delivered us not just vengeance, but finality. Redmask is broken. The pirate scourge is routed. The blood price is paid."
A second wave of cheers rolled through the hall—louder this time, swelling with pride.
A few of the warriors returned faint, strained smiles—more duty than celebration behind their eyes.
Even Doran saw it.
But he said nothing—for now.
His gaze settled on one figure.
"Mors. Step forward."
Mors hesitated for only a heartbeat before moving ahead. The room fell quiet again.
"At only fourteen," Doran said, "he has done what many twice—or thrice—his age could not.
His bravery, his strategic mind, his tactical clarity, and his martial prowess are an inspiration for all Dorne to emulate."
He looked Mors in the eye.
"Mors. Kneel."
Mors's eyes widened slightly. But he dropped to one knee without a word.
Doran drew his sword.
And with the ancient words of the Faith echoing in the chamber, he spoke:
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.
In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.
In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.
In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.
In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong and honorable.
In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom and guidance.
In the name of the Seven, I charge you to uphold these vows—now and always."
He touched the blade to Mors's shoulders, then returned it to its sheath.
"Now rise, Ser Mors Martell—Prince of Dorne."
The hall erupted.
Cheers thundered from every corner of the chamber.
Even Oberyn, Jeremy, Lewyn, and Manfrey offered rare, genuine smiles.
Doran stepped closer and placed a hand on Mors's shoulder. His voice dropped low—just for him.
"You did what I and many could not," he murmured. "And I grieve what it cost you. Don't let guilt erode who you are."
Mors bowed his head.
"I accept no glory for it."
"You earned it all the same," Doran replied.
Then, turning back to the court, his voice lifted once more.
"Today, we honor not only victory—but sacrifice. Let no one forget the names of the dead—or the price paid to deliver this day."
A solemn chant rose from the crowd.
A roll call of the fallen:
Veyra. Salor. Nael.
Spears. Guards. Sons of Dorne.
The dead were remembered.
The living stood unchanged.
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Later — Princess Loreza's Solar
The doors closed behind them.
No guards. No lords. No banners.
Just family—and the few who had truly been there.
The walls were thick with silence.
Doran stood near the center, brow furrowed in quiet thought.
Mellario sat by the window with Elia, her fingers laced tightly in her lap.
Loreza poured wine for both of them but barely touched her own.
Mors lingered near the hearth, still in partial armor, the firelight glinting off dented steel.
Oberyn leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes distant.
Manfrey sat apart, staring into nothing.
Jeremy remained standing—rigid, composed.
So did Lewyn, his expression unreadable.
Areo Hotah stood guard by the door, silent as stone.
They were all thinking of the same person.
But no one dared speak her name.
"It's done," Doran finally said. "But we've learned nothing of who backed them. At the very least we can close this chapter."
"For now," Lewyn added. "They were preparing to move—too much coin, too many supplies. Someone warned them. Or supplied them."
"No sigils," Jeremy said. "No letters that survived. And the captain… died before we could pull more."
Oberyn's jaw tightened.
Mors kept his gaze on the floor.
"He said enough."
A beat of silence.
Then, Manfrey spoke—his voice low and flat.
"We should've burned them all."
No one answered.
He didn't flinch beneath their silence.
Elia looked over, concern flickering behind her eyes.
Mellario exhaled softly, her voice low and edged with her Norvoshi accent.
"You all returned alive. That is no small thing… but I see only shadows, where peace ought to be."
Loreza turned at last, her gaze sweeping across her sons, her brother, her nephew.
"You did what needed to be done," she said. "And now the realm knows—Dorne is not to be trifled with. But I won't ask you to celebrate it."
She paused.
"I ask only this: rest. Physically. Mentally. Let this settle."
Doran nodded.
"There will be more to come. The next moves will not be made with swords, but with whispers and intrigue."
"And coin," Mors murmured. "And alliances."
Doran looked to Mors.
"But not today."
Mors solemnly nodded.
He glanced to Manfrey, then to Oberyn, then to Jeremy.
Each carried the same weight.
The war was won.
But the bitterness of it would linger... a permanent shadow, always reminding us of what was lost.