After hearing that the king had declared Prince Mors Martell-Targaryen of the Stepstones—and by extension, all of Dorne—traitors to be eliminated at once, Lord Mace Tyrell made his move. Storm's End had proven too difficult to break, the siege dragging on for months without progress. With no prospect of glory, and unwilling to waste his strength battering against its walls, Mace lifted the siege and turned south. Seeking honor in conquest, he chose instead to strike at the heart of Dorne, recalling the Reach's past victories there. Despite not being known for his military genius, he avoided the closer Stoneway—long known as a death trap—and ordered his host to march the long road around, through the Prince's Pass.
But surprisingly, the Dornish were waiting. Though outnumbered nearly two-to-one, they had laid traps, and with superior knowledge of the land, harried and stalled the twenty-one thousand men of the Reach with no more than ten thousand. Even so, fortune favored the Reachmen elsewhere. The small council had already dispatched the royal fleet to strike the Stepstones. If the smaller fleet there could be destroyed, the royal navy would then have freedom to blockade both Dorne and the Stepstones in a crushing pincer.
Meanwhile, the rebels faced their own peril. The Westerlands, sensing weakness, poured in another ten thousand men. Lord Tywin himself moved to join forces with Lord Leo Lefford, whose host had advanced from the Golden Tooth. Together they merged into a strength of twenty-four thousand, commanded now by Tywin with the aid of Lord Kevan Lannister, Lord Roland Crakehall, Lord Damon Marbrand, and Lord Leo Lefford.
Yet the chaos of the Ironborn raids yielded an unforeseen boon. Their plundering along Ironman's Bay drove wavering Riverlords into rebellion. Most surprising of all, Lord Walder Frey raised his banners, bringing an additional five thousand men. With their arrival, the Riverland front swelled once more into a bloody stalemate, defined by constant skirmishes and near-daily clashes.
Current Forces Engaged
Royal Faction: ~80K
Opposition Faction: ~72K
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End of 279 AC – The Narrow Sea – North of the Stepstones
The sun, high but not yet at its zenith, poured light across the Narrow Sea. From the bows of their ships, the Stepstones fleet caught sight of the royal fleet bearing down upon them. Even at this distance, the numbers were plain—they were nearly outnumbered two to one.
Mors stood at the prow of the Radiant Spear, glass telescope raised, one of the Stepstones many military innovations born from their mastery of Dornish glasswork, as it was now called. At his side stood Jeremy, Arthur, Qerrin, Garth and Eddard, each taking in the sight.
Qerrin gave a low whistle. "That's quite a fleet."
Eddard's face tightened. "Aye… far too many ships."
Arthur, unfazed, gave a confident smirk. "The good news is, with so many, it'll be hard to miss when the fighting starts."
Behind them, Daven's voice barked orders across the deck. Horns sounded from ship to ship, a rolling wave of notes signaling each vessel's readiness.
Mors lowered the glass. He spoke aloud so everyone could hear. "They're a league and a half off—five minutes, maybe less—before we clash. This is a decisive fight; it will decide whether we can hold supremacy over the Narrow Sea. If we win here, no power on the eastern coast of Westeros will be able to threaten us—only Essos or the Ironborn could contest us."
He narrowed his violet eyes. "But we are outnumbered."
He turned to Qerrin. "Hand me the spears from the chest."
Qerrin blinked, then saluted and opened the ironbound box. Inside rested ten spears of unusual make—long, weighted, each tipped with a sealed flask of black liquid and a short fuse. He hefted one with effort and passed it to Mors. "Here, my prince."
Mors tested the weight easily in one hand and gave a satisfied nod. "Perfect. This will be their first trial in battle. Light it."
Qerrin struck flint, the fuse sparking to life.
Eddard frowned and stepped closer, studying the thing. "What manner of weapon is this?"
Arthur smirked, resting his sword on his shoulder. "You'll see soon enough, Ned."
Mors flared his Aura, focusing on increasing his already monstrous strength as he drew back, muscles coiling. He exhaled. "This isn't personal, Lord Luceryn. But the easiest way to kill a great serpent is to strike its head. May you choose better in your next life."
Then he hurled the spear.
It screamed across the sky, covering the distance in a heartbeat. On the deck of the Sea Dragon, Lord Luceryn Velaryon was giving out commands but turned at the startled shouts—just in time for the spear to punch through his chest. It detonated in fire, engulfing him and his men. Flames leapt to the sails and mast, and as the ship stalled ablaze, two vessels astern collided into it and caught fire in turn.
Mors launched another. And another. Each strike turned ships into infernos. Within moments, more than thirty vessels burned, the air filled with screams and the reek of smoke. Panic rippled through the royal fleet.
"Fire!" Mors roared. Stepstones bows thrummed, loosing volleys of arrows and fire-shafts. The sky darkened, then blazed with falling flame. Enemy sails tore and kindled, the chaos spreading faster than command could rein in.
But soon enough, the royal fleet rallied. Arrows and bolts hissed back, splashing into the sea or biting into wood and flesh. Even so, where once they'd faced over two hundred ships, now only about one hundred and fifty ships remained in fighting order. The odds were still against them—but no longer impossible.
"Hard to port!" Mors commanded. "Ram them!"
As the Radiant Spear surged forward, an arrow cut the air. Mors caught it midflight inches from Eddard's face. He shoved it aside with a glare. "Stay on your feet, Ned. Don't make me regret saving you."
Eddard's face was pale, but he nodded. "…Aye."
The ships crashed together.
"Brace!" Mors shouted, gripping Solaris.
The impact thundered, wood splintering. Grapples flew. Mors vaulted first, knives flashing, cutting down two before his boots touched deck. He rammed into a man, driving him backward into his comrades, then carved another apart with a brutal sweep. His companions—Arthur, Jeremy, Qerrin, Garth, Eddard, Daro, Cale, and Jorran—poured after him, blades cutting a path.
Within minutes the deck was theirs.
"Clear!" Daro called, panting.
"On to the next," Mors ordered. They leapt back aboard the Radiant Spear, arrows hissing past as they turned toward another foe.
They raged from ship to ship, carving a bloody path. At some point they were singled out as the greatest threat and set upon. Several enemy galleys rammed the Radiant Spear itself, trying to break the flagship — and kill Prince Mors.
Mors's brows furrowed. "Damn it. We can't let them succeed. I'll go first. Hold here."
"Wait—" Qerrin began, but Mors was already gone.
"Seven hells," Qerrin muttered. "Princess Ashara will kill me." He turned to the others. "After him!"
Garth said teasingly, as he ran, "Then you better not let her find out!"
Mors moved like a storm, vaulting rail to rail, Solaris blazing. He landed on the enemy deck with a sweeping strike, cleaving seven men in one blow. The rest faltered, eyes wide. He struck again, using a falling body as a springboard to drive into another knot of foes. Panic broke them.
"I surrender!" one cried.
"We yield!" another screamed.
Arthur and the others arrived, finishing the last of the resistance.
"Spare the ones who drop their weapons," Mors commanded.
Arthur nodded. "Aye, my prince."
Then came the horns. Dozens of them. Mors turned, heart thundering, until he saw banners rising on the horizon—the Sun-and-Spear of Dorne.
"Dorne is here!" Mors roared. "Now, finish them!"
A chorus rose from every deck.
"Dorne!"
"For the Stepstones!"
"For Prince Mors!"
And the Narrow Sea burned with fire and battle-cry.
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Later That Afternoon
It was an overwhelming victory. The timely arrival of the Dornish fleet ended whatever fight the royal fleet could still offer, letting them pick the survivors off. About fifty ships got away — if not for the battle in the Prince's Pass, they'd have followed to finish them off. But they had achieved their goal and now had a more urgent battle front to reach.
The fleet was heading back to Sunfort for a quick stop before moving to the Prince's Pass. Doran had led the fleet himself; Mors had joined him aboard the Dornish Sun. The Radiant Spear trailed behind, badly damaged and being towed.
Mors grinned. "Your arrival couldn't have been more timely. Did you take your time so you could be the hero, brother?"
Doran smirked. "Ah, I've been caught. No matter—so long as I can save my little brother and all can bask in the glory that is the Prince of Dorne, me, I'm satisfied."
They both laughed. Even Areo Hotah, Doran's personal guard, cracked a smile at the brothers' easy teasing.
Then Mors grew solemn and sighed. "I lost almost five hundred men in that fight—men I'd recruited, trained, and fought beside."
Doran nodded slowly. "That is why war should be the last resort. No one truly wins in them."
They fell quiet, watching the water. Mors broke the silence, not wanting to keep thinking about the losses. "I lost Thirty-five ships… You said you lost five ships?"
Doran nodded. "That's right. We didn't engage like you did, but we caught the last desperate struggle. Fortunately, you captured about fifty ships, isn't that right?"
"Aye," Mors said. "We captured about fifty, but most need repair, they won't be of help for this war."
They watched the Stepstones draw nearer, a patrolling fleet moving along its edge.
"One of your patrols," Doran said. "The closest should be from Bloodstone, yes?"
Mors nodded. "Correct. That'll be Ser Bedwyck's patrol. We can't empty the Stepstones — not with Essos so close." He let the thought hang.
Doran looked toward Essos, face tight. "Yes. Essos."
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After a quick stop for a cold meal, tending the wounded and leaving prisoners behind, they put to sea again.
Mors was quiet, oddly melancholic. After sending Ashara on her way this time, he knew he would likely miss the birth of his first child—son or daughter—when he returned. He vowed the enemy would pay for it.
The remaining ninety Stepstones ships, seventy-five Dornish warships, and thirty transports arrived at Yronwood a day later after a hard push. A Martell steward met them; the young lady of Yronwood, who was little Maron's betrothed, was still being fostered at Sunspear. The Stepstones army disembarked: five thousand men, one thousand of them cavalry. Doran had another five thousand men waiting to join — two thousand cavalry among them.
Mors swung into the saddle of Vezar. "It should take about a day and a half on foot to reach the Prince's Pass," he said. "We can't wait that long. It's growing dark; without the heat we can rush ahead with the cavalry and reach them by morning. We'll give them support sooner."
Doran hesitated, then looked to the sky. After a breath he nodded. "Very well. We will follow your plan."
They made quick preparations and rode out. Mors, Doran, Qerrin, Eddard, Garth, Daro, Cale, Jorran, and Areo led the cavalry, three thousand in total.
They rode through the night, across the treacherous dunes and passes that make Dorne notorious, and reached the approaches to the Prince's Pass before dawn. Booms echoed from the mountains. Over the next rise they saw the battle: battlements and camps on both sides, siege engines lobbing boulders, and men sheltered in trenches to escape the rain of stone. The Reach hurled boulders from trebuchets; the Dornish answered with scorpions and arrows. Despite the stalemate, the Dornish line was clearly losing ground.
Mors watched everything carefully. For the first time he saw a proper pitched battle between armies, and he did not like it—it was a human grinder. Two hosts pushed toward the center, and one was beginning to give way: about eight thousand Reachmen against five thousand Dornish, and the Dornish were visibly more worn.
"We need to help them, quickly," he told Doran. "Go see the overall position. Find Uncle Lewyn and Oberyn."
Doran stood up, wry at being put on the safer task. He understood Mors did not want him in the thick of it. "All right. I'll check." Fifty men, including Areo Hotah, broke off with him. The remaining Dornish cavalry stayed with Mors; Doran had named him their captain.
Mors raised Solaris and pointed forward. "The rest—with me!"
Almost three thousand cavalry thundered down the slope. Horns sounded, and hundreds of warcries rolled across the field, and for a breath the whole battle seemed to hold its breath.
"For the Stepstones!" one voice cried.
"For Dorne!" answered another.
"The Sun of Dorne!" the line took up the cry.
Arrows came faster as the defenders found new hope. The routing men held a heartbeat longer. Then the cavalry struck—Mors, Arthur, Eddard, Garth, Qerrin and the rest at the spear's tip.
They hit like a hammer upon an anvil. The charge cut into the Reachmen: three thousand of them fell in that first blow, though the cavalry lost close to five hundred. The Reach, realizing the situation was dire, rallied an additonal ten thousand fresh troops that had been waiting to switch in, and began to march forward to engage them, while two thousand Dornish reinforcements that had been harassing the reachmen with arrows moved in to support as well.
When the Reach line finally broke, another thousand fell in the pursuit — but they halted the chase when the rest of the Reach army appeared on the ridge. Both sides pulled back. The Dornish, however, rode the high of the day.
After the dead were gathered and the lines reorganized, the commanders met in Prince Lewyn Martell's command tent that afternoon. Present were Prince Doran, Prince Lewyn, Prince Oberyn, Prince Mors, Ser Jeremy, Ser Arthur, Lord Beric Dayne, Lord Harmen Uller, and Lord Franklyn Fowler. Oberyn sat beside Eddard, slung an arm across his shoulder, and said something that made the stoic young northern lord blush.
Lewyn spoke first. "Doran, Mors, your arrival could not have come at a better time. The Reach would not let us breathe. With constant bombardment, shifting lines, night attacks, we were close to breaking. I did not know how long we could hold."
Doran replied, solemn. "We're here now. But we are only the vanguard. Seven thousand more men are marching from Yronwood; they should be here in a day."
Lord Franklyn suggested, "Should we call on Prince Manfrey? He has five thousand guarding the Stoneway. Even a few thousand could help."
Doran and Lewyn considered it, then met each other's eyes. Doran nodded for Lewyn to take the lead as Grand Marshal. Lewyn called toward the tent entrance, "Tolen, get in here!"
Ser Tolen Vyr, one of the Spears of the Sun and Oberyn's lieutenant, hurried in. He nodded to the princes and to Mors.
"Send a note to Manfrey," Lewyn said. "Reinforce us with two thousand men. Go—it's urgent."
Tolen saluted and ran.
They shared a short smile at the swift action, but Mors remained thoughtful. "From what I saw today, the Reach still has over fourteen thousand men. We currently have fewer than nine thousand. But once reinforcements arrive, we'll have more than fifteen thousand, enough to meet them equally on the field. At that moment I don't think we should wait any longer for a final battle."
Lewyn frowned. "Mors, I know you're used to pulling off dangerous, decisive strikes, but this isn't a matter of a few hundred men... We are talking about thousands of men here… If we engage them head-on, the losses will be terrible."
Mors nodded in understanding, but smirked slightly. "Of course, I understand that. But we won't fight them to the death. We need only hold them long enough for a small group to capture Lord Mace Tyrell." He grinned.
Everyone's eyes went wide.
Oberyn laughed. "If anyone can pull that off, it's the magician of King's Landing."
"Magician of King's Landing?" Mors said, bemused.
"You haven't heard?" Oberyn grinned. "They're calling you that after sneaking into the Red Keep, rescuing Eddard Stark, and slipping out again—without anyone catching wind of it until the end. It was like you were a magician." He laughed, delighted.
Mors glanced at Doran, who gave a wry smile.
"I didn't think it was important enough to mention," Doran said, helplessly.
Even Eddard cracked a smile at the memory. Grateful.
Mors rubbed his brow. "You were right—it's not an important matter mention." He straightened. "As I was saying before. When the reinforcements arrive, that night, we face them in one final engagement to keep them busy. Then a small party led by me, will slip into their back lines and capture Lord Mace Tyrell. With him captive, they'll be forced to sue for terms."
A murmur of assent ran through the tent.
Doran said, "If that's what you're thinking, I believe we can pull it off." He then turned to Lewyn and, speaking more formally, asked, "Grand Marshal Lewyn—your orders?"
Prince Lewyn reflected for a moment and then inclined his head. "Then we shall proceed. Once—"
A boom outside cut him off. Faces tightened.
"Oh no," Lord Harmen Uller said, slapping his forehead. "They've started the bombardments again."
Lewyn rose, voice hard. "Then we will answer in kind. Pound them for a day. When our reinforcements arrive, we strike, and we end this tomorrow night. Dismissed."
He rushed from the tent, barking orders.
As everyone left the tent, Mors fell in beside Oberyn. "Brother—out of curiosity, what did you say to Ned earlier? I don't think I've ever seen him flustered like that."
Oberyn's smile turned hungry and he laughed. "Oh, nothing much, Mors. Syrana said she'd like to put a smile on that brooding northerner, and I offered to be an active helper." His grin widened.
Mors sighed, then murmured. "Of course it was something like that."
Oberyn laughed and slung an arm around him. "Come, brother. Let's find Doran and catch up. This is war—any of us can die at any moment, so let's enjoy the time we have." He led Mors out, still chuckling.
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The Next Night
The sun bled into the horizon, staining the world red—a grim omen of what was to come. From the Stepstones-Dorne host, the deep thunder of war drums rolled across the field as they marched at last to meet their foe.
The sudden offensive caught the Reachmen unprepared. For days the Dornish had sat entrenched, falling back step by step, bleeding ground yet refusing to break. The Tyrell host, dulled by the promise of inevitable victory, had grown lax in its vigilance. Lord Mace Tyrell himself, lulled into complacency, had been gorging at feast with his bannermen when the reversal came. Now, roused too late, he was forced to field his army against a greater force than he had ever believed Dorne could muster.
Over fifteen thousand men advanced under the starless night—ten thousand in the main body, spear-walls bristling in front, skirmishers and bowmen behind, and heavy infantry poised at the wings. Over five thousand cavalry shadowed the flanks, including squadrons of mounted archers, their sand-steeds restless for the charge.
Mace blustered, but it was Lords Mathis Rowan and Quentyn Roxton who seized the initiative, taking command of the flanks while leaving Mace the glory of the center. Fourteen thousand Reachmen marched to meet their foe, nine thousand in heavy mail, five thousand knights and horsemen glittering like a tide of steel.
The field shuddered as arrows flew. Both lines darkened the sky with shafts, men crumpling with cries as the ground became slick with blood. Dornish archers outnumbered their foes, but lighter armor meant their losses were keenly felt. Still, Prince Doran and Prince Lewyn Martell pressed on without looking back. Each man had his duty, and for some of them, it was death.
Then steel met steel. Spearwalls slowed the Reach advance, long shafts cutting men down in rows. But once the heavy infantry pressed close, the balance shifted. Stepstones troops surged into the fray, assaulting the flanks, while mounted archers rained arrows into weak points. When the cavalry joined, Dornish riders skirmished, darting in and out, while Stepstones heavy horse slammed directly into enemy knights. The field became a storm of screams, steel, and shattered lances.
But amid the chaos, another plan unfolded.
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Less than ten riders had slipped away under the cover of the night, their movement hidden by the thunder of war drums. They now circled wide, cutting behind the Reach lines.
"There," Mors said, eyes narrowing. "No more than fifty guards around Mace Tyrell."
Oberyn grinned, playful even on the edge of slaughter. "So… only slightly harder than usual?"
Mors smirked back. Around them, the chosen few readied themselves—Oberyn, Arthur Dayne, Qerrin Toland, Garth Hightower, Tolen Vyr, Daro, Jorran, and Cale. Each man nodded in grim accord.
"Let's go," Mors ordered, aura spreading to horses and riders alike.
They struck like a knife through silk. Throwing knives flickered in the dim light, felling five guards before the rest even turned. Then came the charge, steel biting deep as the Dornish carved through the circle.
Mors saw Mace's retainers dragging him away and muttered coldly, "Oh no you don't." He glanced at Oberyn. "Hold them. I'm going hunting."
Oberyn laughed, driving into the melee with his spear. "Plenty here to keep me entertained!"
Arthur and Qerrin spurred after Mors.
"Hold steady, Vezar," Mors whispered to his sand-steed as he rose in the saddle. "Ram them once I'm gone."
He leapt. Solaris flashed, carving down three men before his boots hit the ground. He vaulted clean over another, severing his head midair, then landed in a roll, spinning his spear to drive its butt squarely into Mace Tyrell's chest. The Reach lord was hurled backward, crashing to the ground in a heap of silk and fat.
Mors cut down the rest with brutal precision, then hauled the dazed Mace up by his hair. "Vezar!" His horse trotted back at once. Mors swung into the saddle with Mace draped before him, pressing a Valyrian dagger to his throat.
His voice thundered over the din: "We have Mace Tyrell! Surrender, or he dies!"
The guards faltered, blades wavering.
Oberyn and the others took up the cry. "Mace Tyrell is ours! Yield!"
The words rippled outward. First confusion, then disbelief, then the realization spreading like fire. Across the lines men began to shout it: "The Tyrell lord is taken!"
The battle stalled.
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Mors rode into the center, dragging Mace upright for all to see. The great lord of the Reach wept openly, snot and tears streaking his face.
"Please," he babbled. "Spare me—I'll yield, I'll surrender, just don't hurt me—"
Crack.
Mors's hand whipped across his face. "Silence. You speak when I command."
Mace blubbered, "Yes, yes, I'll stay quiet—"
Crack.
"Did I tell you to speak?"
Mace sobbed, shaking his head violently.
Arthur, riding beside Garth, caught the man's broad grin as Mace Tyrell sobbed like a scolded child. Leaning closer, eyes still sweeping for threats, Arthur asked quietly, "Isn't Mace Tyrell your brother-in-law?"
Garth's smile only grew brighter, almost radiant. "Yes. Yes, he is."
Arthur blinked, half ready to press the point—but thought better of it.
Mors raised his dagger high so all could see. His voice was cold as steel. "Surrender, or this war continues with your lord under Dornish hospitality. We shall see if noble Tyrell blood runs red like any other."
Mace shrieked, panic breaking him. "No! No! Surrender! Mathis, Quentyn, yield! Lay down your arms or you'll be traitors!"
Rowan and Roxton met each other's eyes. Resignation passed between them.
At last, they cried out: "We yield! Men, down your weapons!"
One by one, Reachmen dropped their swords, the clang of steel on earth spreading like a mournful dirge.
A roar rose from the Dornish and Stepstones ranks.
"Glory to Dorne!" Oberyn shouted.
"Prince Mors!" came the answering cry.
"The Sun of Dorne! Prince Mors!"
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The Next Morning
Mors and Lewyn walked through the camp, surveying their wounded and their dead. Victory had come, but at a terrible price—four thousand Dornish and Stepstones slain, four thousand more Reachmen dead, and ten thousand captives.
Lewyn, his one eye hard, laid a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Don't carry it all, Mors. This is war. You saved us all with that strike."
Mors's face remained set. "Eight thousand dead, Uncle. The cost is too high. This has to end quickly."
Lewyn sighed. "You could leave the rest to fight between them. Neither side could ever truly take Dorne or the Stepstones."
But Mors shook his head. "No. I'll ride north. We'll gather every rider we can muster and strike them back in the Riverlands. With Mace as our captive, the Reach will be crippled. This war ends before my child—before Elia's child—is born."
Lewyn studied him, then nodded gravely. "Then go. I'll support you. Doran will too."
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That Afternoon
Five thousand horsemen stood ready at the mouth of the Prince's Pass to ride out. Mors turned to his brother.
"Doran, you should stay. Guard the rear with Uncle Lewyn."
Doran chuckled bitterly. "I may not wield a spear like you, but I won't sit idle while my younger brothers ride to war. I am a Martell. We do not bow, we do not bend, we do not break. I ride." He spurred his horse forward.
Oberyn laughed and surged after him. "Then we ride together!"
Mors sighed, then grinned despite himself. "Like our races back in the Water Gardens."
He lowered Solaris and gave the order. "Forward! Ride!"
Five thousand voices cried out as the princes of Dorne led the charge northward—three brothers, united, driving the war toward its end.