Lannisport — Next Day, Before Dawn
The chill of the pre-dawn air clung to Mors as he fastened the last buckle of his armor. The camp was hushed, broken only by the distant snort of horses and the faint whisper of the sea against the shore.
He crossed swiftly to his Personal Guard's pavilion, each step crunching over the damp earth, the cold air sharpening his focus.
Outside, a lone sentry sat near the entrance, fighting off the pull of sleep. The faint sound of approaching steps snapped him upright.
"My prince," Arodan said, standing sharply at attention.
Mors returned the salute. "Arodan. Your turn on watch, I see. No time for rest tonight—come, let's wake the others."
Arodan blinked at the unexpected order but fell in beside him. Together they pushed through the tent flap.
Inside, the guard slept in scattered fashion—on bedrolls, leaning against crates, one snoring faintly in his chair.
"Up," Mors's voice cut through the dark like steel.
Jeremy stirred first, rubbing at his eyes before focusing on the armored silhouette before him. "My prince?"
"Get the Eclipse ready," Mors said, his tone brisk, leaving no room for hesitation. "Fully stocked—sails and oars both. We leave at the break of dawn. I'll explain on the way."
Jeremy studied him for a heartbeat, reading the urgency in his expression, then gave a single sharp nod. "Aye."
Around him, the rest of the Eclipse Guard shook off sleep and began strapping on armor, gathering weapons, and packing without a single complaint.
Mors didn't linger. He stepped back into the cold, heading with long strides toward Doran's tent.
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He made his way to Doran's tent, saluting the patrolling guards before slipping past them into the dark interior.
"Doran," he called firmly, "wake up—it's urgent."
Startled, Doran sat up, pulling on a robe, his expression groggy and frowning.
"Mors?" His voice was thick with sleep. "What's going on? Did something happen?" He glanced toward the entrance—it was still pitch black outside.
"Yes," Mors said, his tone so flat and serious it cut through the haze instantly. "I… just had a nightmare, but… it was more than that."
Doran straightened, reading the gravity in his brother's face. "More?"
Mors stepped closer. "Brother, I believe I saw the future. A very near future. I saw Mother killed, Mellario taken by pirates, Planky Town burning to the ground… and betrayal from within our own walls."
The words hung heavy in the air. Doran's eyes widened, his drowsiness gone in an instant.
"This…" Doran began, almost hesitant, "couldn't it just be a nightmare?"
Mors shook his head. "If it was, I would have felt it. Everything in me says this was real. I think…" he exhaled slowly, "…I think this was a dragondream."
Doran blinked. "Like Daenys the Dreamer? From the Targaryen stories?"
Mors nodded. Silence followed—thick, uneasy.
Finally, Mors broke it. "I'm leaving. I'll take the Eclipse with my guard. If we push hard, we can reach Sunspear in five days with minimal rest."
Doran studied him, then gave the smallest of nods. "You're serious—and it seems you've already made your decision."
"I have."
"I honestly don't know what to think of this… but with everything I've seen from you… if it's true, they're in grave danger." His eyes widened as another thought struck. "Most of our standing army is at Ghaston Grey with the fleet, keeping the Yronwoods in check. Sunspear has never been more exposed."
He fixed his gaze on Mors. "You must protect Mellario and Mother. We're relying on you."
Mors inclined his head.
"Very well," Doran said, rubbing his brow. "I'll finish matters here and follow. I'll send ravens immediately… You're right—if we travel together, it would take twice as long. I hope you're wrong, brother… but if you're not…"
His gaze darkened. "The implications of this power—for our house and for the realm—are greater than we can yet imagine. I'll cover for your departure, but speak of this to no one who doesn't need to know."
He exhaled heavily. "Now go. There will be no more rest for me tonight."
They clasped forearms.
"May the gods be with you, Mors," Doran said.
Mors nodded but said nothing, only turned toward the flap, his mind already on the tides.
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Mors reached the docks of Lannisport, his gaze falling on The Eclipse—his ship. A sleek, modified Myrish fast interceptor, sixty feet from bow to stern, painted entirely in matte black with subtle crimson and gold trim in Martell patterns. Its lateen sail, dyed the same deep black, caught the wind, the faint outline of a red eclipse emblazoned across it. The shallow-draft hull was built for speed and stealth, its low silhouette perfect for slipping past enemy eyes. A light ballista was mounted on the bow, with javelin racks along the rails—optimized for a small, disciplined crew, though capable of carrying over twenty if needed.
As Mors stepped aboard, the familiar creak of the deck met him. His crew was already in motion, tightening ropes, checking arms, stowing supplies. Every man and woman here was part of the 11th Regiment of the Spears of the Sun—his Eclipse Guard. They served as his personal escort, guards, and handpicked operatives for missions that never reached official records.
Only Bedwyck was absent, still at Ghaston Grey with Manfrey. Daro stood near the mast, his left arm in a sling—the price of their last covert mission. Counting himself, that left ten ready for whatever lay ahead.
He was about to give the order to cast off when five figures strode quickly down the dock toward him.
"My prince, wait!" one called. "We'll be joining you!"
Mors stepped forward, surprised. "Ser Tolen, you're coming? I thought your regiment was assigned to my brother's protection."
"Yes," Tolen said, catching his breath, "but Ser Daven has returned from his mission—he's taking over. There are still enough men for Doran's guard. The five of us will ride with you."
Mors gave a short nod, his expression softening. Doran was taking this warning seriously—more seriously than Mors had dared hope. In his place, Mors might have been skeptical of a "vision," but it seemed his word carried more weight with his brother than he'd realized.
Two other Spear regiments had been assigned to this voyage for added security. Their lieutenants, Ser Tolen Vyr and Ser Daven Quarr, were men Mors knew well. Daven was a grizzled veteran who had mentored and advised Mors during the last pirate war; Tolen, the youngest lieutenant in the Spears, was already spoken of as one of the most promising talents in Dorne.
"Good," Mors said. "Glad to have you aboard." He turned toward the quarterdeck. "Jeremy—are we ready?"
Jeremy saluted sharply. "Aye, my prince. All supplies stowed, crew accounted for."
"Then let's not waste a heartbeat. We sail now. It's believed traitors within Sunspear have allied with pirates to harm our princess." His voice hardened. "That is unacceptable. We move to intercept—or to reach them before it's too late. Is everyone ready?"
A chorus rose from the deck.
"For Dorne!"
"For the Princess!"
"Damn the pirates!"
The ropes were cast off, the sail caught the wind, and The Eclipse slipped out of Lannisport, her black hull slicing through the dark waters like a shadow with purpose.
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Five days later
The Eclipse cut through the waves like a shadow, her black sail snapping in the wind. They had made quick stops at the Shield Islands and the Arbor for supplies, but now the horizon ahead pulled every eye forward.
"Smoke," Daro muttered from the bow, his face tightening. "Is that…?"
Mors narrowed his eyes, his jaw set. "Without a doubt. Either a ship or Planky Town." His voice sharpened. "Everyone, ready arms—then row. We need to get there now."
"Aye!" came the chorus as crew and guard alike seized the oars, driving the ship forward with quick, powerful strokes—Mors's aura subtly flowing through them, keeping fatigue at bay and their rhythm unbroken.
The closer they came, the more the scene unfolded. Mors felt his stomach twist. It wasn't exactly like the dream—this time, it seems Planky Town had been warned. The defenders were overwhelmed, yes, but not caught completely off guard. He saw levies fighting in the streets, townsfolk fleeing in organized clusters. The docks were chaos—burning ships both pirate and Dornish, but the black sails and strange colors of the raiders vastly outnumbered Dorne's banners.
"Quickly!" Mors called. "Intercept the lead ship!"
The Eclipse swung toward a massive pirate vessel at the forefront. Fire arrows hissed from their bow, catching enemy sails in slow-burning orange bloom. The hulls drew close—too close—until they slammed together with a bone-jarring crack.
"Tolen! Cover our rear!" Mors barked before vaulting over the rail.
He landed in the fray like a thrown spear. A throwing knife left his hand before his boots even touched the deck—burying itself in a pirate's throat.
An arrow whistled toward him. Time seemed to slow. 'Wait… can I grab this out of the air?'
His hand shot up—fingers closing around the shaft mid-flight. 'That actually worked.'
Reversing his grip, he spotted a charging sailor whose eyes went wide in disbelief. Mors drove the arrowhead straight into the man's eye. The body crumpled.
A blade hissed past as he ducked, ramming Solaris into another man's gut. He ripped the spear free in a spray of crimson, then drew a dagger and slashed his throat.
For a heartbeat, the deck went still. Eyes turned toward him. 'Everyone's watching… perfect. Time to really frighten them. Hmm… oh, let's Gary Oldman this.'
Mors stood with spear in one hand, dagger in the other, head lowered. Then, slowly, he looked up. His violet eyes locked on them.
They flinched. One man dropped his weapon and leapt overboard.
"Next."
The nearest pirate didn't have time to react. Mors slashed his throat, seized the collapsing body, and used it as a springboard—vaulting high and bringing Solaris down in a brutal thrust into the neck of one of the two pirates pressing Jeremy. The man dropped instantly.
An arrow thudded against the small shield strapped to Mors's back; without looking, he flung a second knife at the bowman, shattering his grip and sending the weapon clattering to the deck. Surrounded now, he hurled Solaris like a spear into another pirate's chest. In the heartbeat before they could swarm him, his hands found a shortsword and a dagger—blades flashing in a whirling storm. Speed and strength surged through him in sharp bursts, every strike snapping bone or severing tendon. Four men fell in as many breaths.
As the last collapsed, Mors sheathed the sword and dagger, retrieving Solaris in a single, fluid motion. Around him, the fighting dwindled—the Eclipse's crew mopping up the last resistance.
"No time to rest!" Mors called. "To the shore!"
The Eclipse disengaged, cutting toward the docks. Planky Town's defenders—ragged but unbroken—were slowly forcing the raiders back. Mors and his men became the hammer to their anvil, striking in a sudden, brutal charge that shattered the enemy morale and sent them scattering.
"Don't chase—on me!" Mors called, rallying his guard.
Smoke still curled above the harbor, but movement on the horizon caught his eye—Dornish sails, cutting toward them in formation.
"Reinforcements from Ghaston Grey!" Mors called out, voice carrying over the clash of steel. "They'll be here in a few hours. Hold the line—push them back!"
Another knot of pirates was breaking away, retreating inland toward Sunspear. Mors drove his men after them. As they neared the city, the enemy slowed—waiting. Watching the gates. Something was wrong. The gates stayed shut.
Instead, arrows hissed down from the walls, tearing into the pirates and forcing them to scatter.
Mors's group intercepted them mid-withdrawal—fifteen against thirty-five. And at the front…
The giant from his dream.
Easily seven and a half feet tall, broad as two men, his bare arms corded with muscle and smeared with grime and blood. The axe he carried wasn't just a weapon—it was a tool for making death slow and agonizing. His dark eyes fixed on Mors, unblinking.
The street seemed to narrow between them.
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Mors stepped forward, his voice cold and cutting.
"You've chosen the wrong people to attack, pirate."
The massive man grinned, teeth flashing under the soot and blood. His voice was rough, his Common tongue broken.
"You… Valyrian… from Dorne? Is you… Mors?"
Mors narrowed his eyes. "It doesn't matter if I am or not. You end here."
The giant laughed, deep and cruel.
"Hah! I have finally found you! Remember the name of the man who ends you—Tazrik Vharro! I will avenge my brother, Dravos!"
With a roar, Tazrik charged.
The Eclipse Guard unleashed their last volley of throwing knives, cutting down several pirates before they could close. Mors pushed his aura out in a wave, flooding his men with heightened speed and strength. The strain bit at him immediately—stamina burning fast.
He had to end this quickly.
Tazrik's axe came in wide and heavy. Mors dropped low, sliding across the blood-slick cobblestones under the swing, rising behind the giant with a slash to the hamstring. Tazrik spun, the blade of his axe cutting air as Mors vaulted over a fallen crate, spearing down from above. The giant caught the haft of Solaris in his massive hand, twisting violently—Mors kicked off his chest to free the weapon, flipping back to land in a crouch.
They circled. Pirates and Dornish alike stepped back, giving the duel its space.
Mors feinted left, then burst right, vaulting off a low wall to come in from above again. This time Solaris found flesh—driving into Tazrik's thigh. The giant grunted, staggering and dropping his axe.
"This damn spear… come close and face me, Dornish bastard!"
Mors advanced for the killing thrust—only for Tazrik's hand to blur to the short sword at his hip. Steel met steel with a high, unnatural ring. The blade sheared clean through Solaris's tip, then slashed across Mors's breastplate, cutting it open like wet parchment.
Mors's eyes widened. "What…? Valyrian steel!"
Tazrik straightened, blood running down his leg, but grinning like a wolf.
"Hahaha! Took it from a pompous noble of Volantis. Too small for me… but just right to carve pretty faces like yours."
Mors tossed the broken spear to Jeremy and drew his short sword and dagger.
"Then let's make this round two."
By now, more Dornish guards had arrived, surrounding the remaining pirates. They shifted uneasily under the spears aimed their way, dropping their weapons in surrender.
Mors moved in again. This time he was faster—much faster.
"You… bastard," Tazrik spat between blows. "You were just… playing before! How are you so fast now?!"
Mors didn't answer.
Tazrik staggered back, feigning weakness. Then his boot struck the ground, sending a spray of sand toward Mors's face as he lunged, Valyrian steel sword driving straight for the heart.
But Mors was already moving—vaulting up Tazrik's own arm, twisting midair, and bringing his short sword down in a brutal arc. The blade punched deep into the side of the giant's neck.
Tazrik's massive frame shuddered. He toppled forward, the Valyrian steel sword slipping from his grasp with a dull clang. Blood pooled beneath him as he forced out his final, choking words.
"Dravos… it seems we… we both… got killed… by this… Valyrian… bas…tard…"
His eyes glazed over, and the giant was still.
Ser Qerrin stepped in, gaze fixed on the corpse. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
"My prince… this monster looks like the captain you killed on the island where I was imprisoned—during the Pirate War. Three years ago."
Mors, turning the Valyrian steel blade in his hand, arched a brow.
"Oh. So that's what he meant..."
He exhaled, almost to himself.
"Blood begets blood."
Around them, the last fifteen surviving pirates were bound and dragged away. Out in the bay, Dornish warships were running down the vessels still trying to flee.
Mors wiped the blood from his face, his eyes sweeping over the battlefield.
"A resounding victory?" he muttered, the words flat.
Then his gaze turned east, toward the Stepstones Islands deep in thought.
End of Arc II — The Tip of the Spear