Early 275 AC – The Red Mountains – Eastern Slopes, The Torrentine
The wind hissed along the ridge, pulling at Mors's hair as he crouched behind a sandstone shelf. In the clearing below, the raiders moved nervously—unaware they were already surrounded.
Then the pirates arrived.
Three of them, mounted and armed, cloaked in salt-stained leathers and bearing differently colored hair in Myrish style. This wasn't a chance encounter. Its implications were troubling.
Mors's jaw tightened.
'Them again. They're a plague that never goes away.'
With a flick of his hand, he gave the signal.
Arrows rained down from both sides of the ridge, precise and sudden. Two of the pirates fell immediately. Raiders scrambled for cover, some returning fire, others fleeing into the brush.
Mors didn't wait for the dust to settle quickly mounting Vezar, his trusty Sand Steed of the past year.
He turned to his right, where six of his personal guard waited on horseback, spears in hand.
"Break left. Cut off the escape," he ordered. "Don't let them reach the gulch."
They mounted as one.
Jeremy was already in motion. "Let's finish it."
They surged forward over the ridge—seven riders, spears low, hooves churning dirt into thunder. The raiders barely had time to scream.
Mors's spear punched through the chest of the first man he reached. He wrenched it free as Vezar carried him past, then twisted his body to catch the next rider with the haft, breaking the man's jaw. Around him, the other guards struck with brutal precision—Idrin opened a throat with a downward thrust; Tahlor unseated a raider with a shield slam that cracked bone.
But some were still fleeing.
"Take the slope!" Mors shouted, kicking his heels into his steed.
They crested a low rise and spotted three raiders making for the broken pass—one with a hostage tied behind him.
Mors leaned forward, urging more speed.
They twisted into scrubland—sharp turns, loose stone, low-hanging branches lashing their faces. One of the pursuers fell back after his horse lost footing on loose gravel. Mors didn't slow.
The raider with the hostage glanced back—and made a fatal mistake. His horse faltered slightly, enough for Mors to close the gap. With a burst of speed, Mors came up alongside and drove his spear up and into the man's back. The raider arched once, then crumpled from the saddle.
The girl—barely ten—screamed, falling with him.
Mors jumped from his saddle before Vezar had even stopped, catching her as she tumbled. She was bruised, dazed, but alive.
He set her gently on the ground, brushing a branch from her hair. "You're safe now," he said, softer than before.
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By midday, it was over.
Thirty-four raiders and pirates lay dead. Two were captured. The merchant was shaken but alive, and the girl was recovering under one of the guard's cloaks. Another hostage—a sellsword from the Reach—had survived with a broken leg but a sharp tongue.
"You Dornish sure know how to time an ambush," he muttered through grit teeth.
Idrin, the youngest of Mors's personal guard, couldn't help but quip back, "You sound disappointed. Were you hoping to spend more quality time with the raiders?"
The sellsword grumbled incoherently. He seemed half-drunk or concussed. He was subsequently ignored by all after ensuring his injuries were non-life-threatening.
Ser Daven Quarr, one of Mors's lieutenants, was kneeling beside the captured pirate leader. Blood trickled down the pirate's temple.
"He says the Stepstones are finished," the lieutenant reported. "Tyrosh pulled support after our campaign. The survivors have scattered."
"Then why are they still here?" Mors asked, voice flat.
The pirate gave a broken smile. "No, not they. Only we remain now. The rogues of Myr... ah, we still carry the grudge, yes?"
"A plague we will be... the sickness—" he coughed, blood flecking his lips "The sickness we will give!"
Then, with a guttural snarl, he bit off his own tongue.
Everyone froze, horrified. The lieutenant rushed forward, trying to stabilize him and extract more answers, but there was no hope.
"What grudge?" Jeremy asked, stepping forward. "Was he talking about the war? They started it."
"This is worse than I thought," Mors said lightly, then fell silent in thought.
After a beat, he added, "More is at play here. A regular pirate would not have killed himself so readily."
Jeremy's expression shifted—a grim clarity dawning.
Daven, soaked in the pirate's blood from the failed attempt, standing beside him, gave a solemn nod. "It seems this is not over."
Mors knelt beside the corpse, searching for identifying items—marks, tokens, papers, anything. He rose slowly, eyes narrowed.
He turned and began to walk away. "Strip him. Look for anything important..."
He paused.
"...and feed him to the cliffs."
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They escorted the rescued captives to a town along the Torrentine, near Blackmont—riding slow, careful through the passes. Mors gave his cloak to the girl, who still hadn't spoken. The merchant offered coin; Mors refused it. The sellsword limped beside Jeremy's horse, ranting about poor pay and worse luck.
They rested only long enough to secure the wounded and deliver a full report to the town's watch.
Then they turned South.
Toward Starfall.
Lord Dayne needed to hear what had been uncovered. Pirates, possibly backed by Myr, were meddling in dangerous matters and perhaps allying with raiders. What that meant exactly was unclear... but one thing was certain: the hoped-for relief from pirate threats was still far off.
As they rode beneath a sky turning lavender with dusk, Mors said nothing.
But the wind that followed them through the passes felt colder than before.
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It had been a year since the smoke cleared from the blackstone cliffs of Redmask.
The scars had faded from skin—but not from memory.
Mors rode at the head of thirty riders as they descended the winding Torrentine trail, the mountain wind tugging at cloaks and crests. His face was calm, but every glance over the ridges sparked memory: of screams, of ash, of a burning fortress beneath a blood-red sky. His body had healed; the nightmares took longer.
The campaign against the pirates had been brutal, but decisive. The Tyroshi-backed factions, scattered and hunted, had fled east after the fall of Redmask. Myr had all but abandoned its ambitions in Westeros—at least for now. But war left behind more than bodies. It left fractures.
Reports had begun to trickle in—raiders in the Eastern Red Mountains, whispers of sellswords with strange accents, and villages too afraid to speak. It smelled like unrest. Like foreign fingers once again testing Dornish borders.
Lewyn had dispatched Mors to investigate with a handpicked force—twenty Spears of the Sun, led by Ser Daven Quarr as his advisor, and accompanied by the ten members of Mors's personal guard. Though many were still green, they were improving rapidly under the guidance of Lewyn, Jeremy, and Doran. Mors wasn't just being tested—he was being groomed as Lewyn's successor… or perhaps something more.
Meanwhile, Lewyn, Oberyn, and Manfrey had ridden north to the Stoneway, once again called to mediate tensions between Houses Yronwood and Fowler. Swords had nearly been drawn before. This time, they hoped to avoid it.
Oberyn had returned to form, more or less. The fire in him still burned, but it was steadier now—less grief, more focus. He laughed again, trained with his old flair, and resumed tormenting Manfrey with equal parts wit and wine.
Manfrey, though, had changed. He smiled rarely, and laughed even less. Since Redmask, something in him had pulled inward—quieter now, more prone to brooding. Mors had seen it himself: Manfrey sitting for hours, unmoving, staring at nothing, as if part of him had never left that blood-soaked beach. Oberyn tried, but even he could only pull their cousin back in fleeting moments.
Back in Sunspear, Princess Loreza had resumed her rule. The worst of her collapse had passed, but she was no longer the woman she had been. Her voice still commanded respect, and her decisions continued to shape Dorne—but her eyes told the truth: ringed with shadow, glassy with pain, like a proud blade dulled by too many wounds. Doran, now her Hand, bore more of the burden than ever. Together, they kept the realm steady. But to those closest to her, the signs were unmistakable—she was fraying at the seams.
Yet Dorne endures, as it always has—unyielding beneath sun and sand.
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Starfall — Arrival at Dusk
The gates opened without delay as Mors's party rode in. Guards in pale armor stood at attention. Waiting in the courtyard was Lord Beric Dayne—tall and barrel-shouldered despite his age. Beside him stood his heir, Ulrick, now fully grown and sharp-eyed, the calm steel of command settling into his frame. A steward held a silver tray bearing salt and bread—a welcome, and a sacred pledge of guest right.
Mors dismounted and accepted the offering with a nod, his men following suit behind him.
Lord Beric stepped forward. "My prince, we received your raven from Blackmont. It said you were coming with haste—and with urgent news."
Mors gave a curt nod. "It is urgent. As Lord of the Torrentine, you need to hear it first."
"Then come," Beric said. "We'll speak in my solar."
Mors turned. "Jeremy, Daven—you're with me. The rest, get some downtime. We'll be here at least until tomorrow."
Inside, the great hall had changed little. The violet and silver tapestries still hung proudly. The long table gleamed beneath hanging lanterns. They passed through it in silence, climbed a narrow stairwell, and made their way to the lord's solar.
Once inside and seated, Mors gave his report.
Lord Beric listened in silence, his brow furrowed. When Mors finished, the old lord remained still for a long moment before speaking.
"Most disturbing news, my prince," he said at last, rising to pour them each a cup of wine. "It seems we have more hidden enemies moving in the shadows than we thought. Preparations must be made."
Mors accepted the wine with a nod. "We managed to stop the latest unrest—but I'm not sure how long the calm will last."
"You've done well, Prince Mors," Beric said. "This may be troubling news, but it's also a gift. Starfall can now prepare. We will be ready."
Ulrick smirked. "Now that the heavy news is done, Father, I think Prince Mors could use something lighter."
Mors glanced between them, curious.
Lord Beric exhaled and gave a small nod. "Arthur has taken the white cloak."
Mors straightened. "He's joined the Kingsguard?"
"He has," Ulrick confirmed. "Sworn in at eighteen. Prince Rhaegar requested him personally after they met."
"Rhaegar?" Mors echoed. "He… made a wise choice."
"That he did," Lord Beric said, pride unmistakable in his voice. "Arthur will serve him well. Even at sixteen, the prince learns like a maester and fights like a knight twice his age. The king keeps him close, and Arthur serves him directly."
"Arthur became Sword of the Morning at sixteen," Ulrick added. "Now a Kingsguard, just two years later. It's a rare path."
Mors nodded slowly, a smile touching his lips. "A great honor—for Arthur, and for House Dayne."
Lord Beric's face turned thoughtful. "Ashara would agree… though she has not taken it lightly. She and Arthur were always close. He trained her, you know. She's become quite skilled with a blade. Small swords are her preference, though she's no stranger to longswords."
"She's been spending more time with our little sister, Allyria," Ulrick added with a smirk. "Trying to train her, though it looks more like a corruption campaign."
Lord Beric gave a rare chuckle.
"You'll find them in the yard, no doubt."
Mors let out an awkward laugh. "Yes… I haven't heard from her in a while."
Beric and Ulrick exchanged knowing smiles—just shy of smirking, the kind of look that held more amusement than sympathy. There was no hiding the schadenfreude.
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The Starfall Yard
The training yard hadn't changed. The dummies stood skewered. The sand was disturbed with the tracks of hours of practice. And sure enough, Ashara Dayne was there—fifteen now, tall and striking, sleeves rolled up, her violet sash whipping in the breeze.
At her side was a miniature version of herself: Allyria Dayne, five years old and filled with fury, swinging a wooden stick at a hay dummy with absolute conviction.
Ashara noticed him first. She paused mid-motion, turned, and raised her hand with a theatrical gasp.
"Oh gods," she exclaimed, shielding her eyes. "What is this blinding light? Could it be? No… it must be—the Sun of Dorne himself! The youngest knight in Westeros, come to grace my humble little eyes?"
Mors sighed, grinning despite himself.
Ashara continued, voice dripping with mock reverence. "What is such a princely presence doing here—before a lowly lady of Dorne? A lady who, may I remind you, has not received even a single raven in months? Not one word. Not even a rude sketch."
He straightened and approached her with deliberately exaggerated solemnity..
"My lady Ashara," he said with a grand bow. "It has been too long. I have missed my sparring partner dearly. No other opponent loses with such grace and poise. A rare talent."
Ashara reeled back, affronted. "Lose? I'll have you know I've improved tremendously. Arthur himself said so."
"Did he now?"
"He did. And if I ever slay a pirate lord or win a tournament, I might even become a knight. Humph."
"And yet," Mors teased, "we prevent exactly that—to spare the realm from a great calamity."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're just worried I'd steal your spotlight. They'd probably call me the Lady of the Dawn. No—wait—the Moon of Dorne! Yes. Perfect. Obviously."
Mors nodded with fond affection. "Obviously."
They looked at each other—then burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.
Allyria tugged on Ashara's sleeve. "You promised I could do the spinning strike next."
Ashara smiled down at her. "Later, little blade."
Then she looked at Mors and grinned. "Well, don't just stand there. Show me if the Sun of Dorne still remembers how to move his feet."
"I'm afraid I've retired from embarrassing Daynes in public."
"Coward."
Of what, she didn't say.
They sparred soon after. No swords—just words. Their banter was a dance, familiar and warm. Ashara threw her jabs like blades; Mors parried with dry wit. And beneath it all, something more delicate lingered in the air—unspoken, but undeniable.
Ashara never said what she felt. But her eyes lingered. Her smirks softened. And when she looked at him, it wasn't just to make him squirm.
And Mors, though he played the part of the unbothered knight, found himself hoping she wouldn't stop.