Eastern Side – Redmask Island
1 Hour Later
The traps were set, the fire flasks lined within reach. The campfires of the eastern and western shores were nothing but fading embers now, their smoke long since dispersed into the night.
It was the dead of night—closer to three than two—when the low thump of the explosion echoed from the dunes. A column of black smoke curled into the starlit sky. For a long moment, the shoreline was silent. Then the sound came—footfalls, hurried and uneven, voices barking questions in the dark.
Mors crouched low in the brush, watching shapes spill from the fortress gates. About forty men, most armed only with short blades, clubs, or a stray spear. No armor to speak of. Barely awake, and wholly unprepared.
He waited until they reached the kill zone.
"Now," he said quietly.
The first volley of fire flasks arced high, smashing into the front ranks with bursts of flame. Pirates screamed as fire raced across their clothes, some stumbling blindly into the traps—spiked pits, trip lines, and sharpened stakes hidden in the sand. Panic bloomed instantly.
Arrows hissed from both flanks, punching into backs, throats, and temples. Those who tried to close the distance were met with thrown knives that buried themselves in eyes and chests. The few who managed to reach the Dornish lines found spearpoints or short blades waiting, cutting them down in the chaos.
It was over in less than two minutes. The sand reeked of oil and blood.
Mors wiped a fleck of soot from his cheek, his voice calm. "Clear the bodies. We're going to the fort."
–––––––––––––––––
Assault on the Fort – Redmask Island
The fortress was awake now—torches burning along the battlements, shadows moving across the walls. They had been roused in time to prepare, at least in part.
"Archers first," Mors ordered. "Suppress the walls."
The first exchange of arrows crackled through the night air, buying time for the assault group to close the gap. Mors was first over the outer barricade, vaulting with an ease that drew startled glances even from his own men. He hit the rampart running, driving his spear into a defender's chest before turning in a blur to cut another's legs from under him.
The fight broke into pockets of steel and screams. Mors moved like water, using the low walls, barrels, and even the shoulders of his foes to vault and strike from angles they never expected. His aura radiated outward, subtly bolstering Oberyn, Manfrey, and the Eclipse Guard—faster reactions, surer footing, harder strikes.
Oberyn's spear whirled in a storm of feints and thrusts, his grin wolfish despite the danger. Manfrey fought colder, each blow deliberate and without flourish.
Then Mors saw him—Corven, the pirate captain. Broad-shouldered, scarred, but slower than his men. He swung a heavy cutlass in a lazy arc, overconfident in numbers that were no longer his.
Mors didn't bother with words. He ducked under the swing, vaulted a broken parapet, and came down behind the man. His spear punched clean through Corven's back and out his chest. The captain's eyes went wide, then dimmed as Mors kicked him free of the blade.
A sharp cry broke the moment—Jeremy, clutching his shoulder, an arrow jutting just below the collarbone. The black stain on the shaft was unmistakable.
"Poison," Jeremy hissed.
Oberyn was already moving. "Good thing I went to the Citadel," he said, kneeling beside him. "Hold still, I've got my kit." His hands were steady, his tone almost casual as he began his work.
–––––––––––––––––
Aftermath – Redmask Island
By the time the last torch in the fort guttered out, the sweep had begun. Small knots of resistance were hunted down and silenced in the barracks, storerooms, and along the outer walls.
When the final count was taken, Jeremy's wound was treated, but five others bore marks of the night—two grazed by arrows, two cut by blades, one missing a finger entirely.
Mors stood in the courtyard, spear planted in the stone, the salt wind tugging at his hair. The island was theirs.
"Search every building, every tunnel," he said. "No survivors. This island is ours."
The men moved to obey, their steps echoing across the dead fort as the sea crashed beyond the walls.
–––––––––––––––––
Eastern Stepstones – Dawn
The first pale light of morning stretched across the horizon as the men finished loading onto the Eclipse. The traps had long since gone cold, their fires quenched, but thick smoke still curled from the clearing where the bodies burned.
Mors lingered a moment at the railing, watching the black column drift into the morning sky. Then he turned.
"Let's return to The Dornish Sun," he ordered.
The Eclipse cut smoothly through the waves toward the rendezvous point. Halfway there, the sight of sails made Mors's brow lift—the Dornish fleet was spread wide, fanning across the waters like a net, clearly searching for something.
A patrol ship spotted them first. A fire arrow hissed into the sky, bursting into a bright flare. One by one, the ships shifted course, converging on their position.
By the time the Eclipse drew alongside The Dornish Sun, the deck above was crowded. Lewyn Martell was there, tension in his posture—until he saw them all aboard. He exhaled a breath he'd clearly been holding.
"Good. You're all here." His eyes moved across the group, lingering on the bandage at Jeremy's shoulder, the crude hand-wrap on one of Oberyn's guards—missing a finger—and the general disheveled state of their clothes. "What happened?"
Before Mors could open his mouth, Oberyn stepped forward, his grin all sharp pride.
"We took an entire island while being outnumbered five to one. That's what happened."
Lewyn froze, staring at him as though he'd misheard. Around them, sailors and soldiers paused in their work, glancing over.
Mors sighed. "Oberyn's not wrong," he admitted, "but it wasn't head-on. We used every advantage we could find—terrain, surprise, traps. We didn't move until we were certain the odds were in our favor."
Lewyn's gaze lingered on him for a long moment before he gave a slow nod. "Still… impressive. And you found the island you were after? The one you mentioned before?"
"That's right. Redmask. It's cleared now. If we move quickly, it'll make an ideal outpost. You should send a garrison before anyone else claims it."
Lewyn didn't hesitate. "Done. Qyros!"
From the quarterdeck, a tall, scarred man turned at the call.
"Take your regiment and ninety more men. You'll sail for Redmask and hold it. Mors will brief you on the details."
Qyros of the Scour saluted sharply, striding over to stand beside Lewyn, waiting for his orders.
Mors gave a short nod. "I'll walk you through the approach routes and the state of the defenses. You'll want to keep a close watch on the harbor mouth."
Lewyn clapped Mors's shoulder, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "You've done well. All of you."
There was a ripple of pride among the men, but no boasting this time—just the quiet satisfaction of a job finished. The fleet shifted course once more, heading deeper into the Stepstones to continue the hunt.
–––––––––––––––––
Seven Days Later — Sunspear Harbor
The Dornish Sun cut through the glistening waters of the harbor, her sails heavy with the salt-wind and the weight of victory. Behind her trailed the remainder of the fleet—weathered, sun-beaten, but triumphant. Redmask Island was now in Dornish hands, with a garrison left behind to hold it.
The pier was lined with banners, the Martell sun-and-spear fluttering above the gathered crowd. Waiting at the front stood Oberyn, Elia, Ashara, Alyssa, and a cluster of retainers and guards. At their center, leaning on a finely carved cane but standing tall regardless, was Princess Loreza. Her ladies-in-waiting kept close, ready to help her forward.
As Mors and his companions dismounted from the gangplank, the cheers began. There were embraces, firm handclasps, and laughter shared between warriors and family. Loreza clasped Mors's hand, her gaze lingering on him with quiet pride before turning to Jeremy in his sling, and even to Oberyn, who grinned like a man who'd cheated death.
The procession moved up toward Sunspear Castle. The ladies took their place in a covered caravan while the soldiers fell into step behind. The castle gates opened to receive them, and the courtyard swelled with the noise of returning men.
–––––––––––––––––
Later — Loreza's Private Solar
The feast with the lieutenants and commanders had run its course—wine poured freely, roasted meats carved to the bone, and toasts traded across the long table. Now, the hall was quiet, the revelry left behind.
Only the principal figures remained in Loreza's solar. She lowered herself into her seat with deliberate grace, setting her cane aside. Around her, Mors, Oberyn, Mellario, Manfrey, Doran, Jeremy, Elia, Ashara, and Lewyn took their places.
At the doors, the Uller siblings—Bedwyck and Alyssa—stood watch alongside Areo Hotah, silent and watchful.
Loreza's gaze swept the group. "Congratulations on defeating the pirates—again." Her tone carried a dry edge before she continued, "We've received a raven from King's Landing. The King has approved your boon, Mors. As expected, it applies only to you. But…" a thin smile touched her lips, "…thanks to some unintended assistance from Lord Tywin Lannister, His Grace has tripled your winnings and decreed that you will be named Lord of whatever outpost we choose to establish. He has also granted you a small fleet to command. The only condition is clear—you will be bound as a vassal of both the Crown and Dorne, and you may not expand beyond without royal sanction. Still, I would say this is a far greater victory than we anticipated."
She leaned forward slightly. "The outpost will be manned and administered by us, though technically under the King's authority. In practice, you would answer to both Sunspear and the Iron Throne. It should prove manageable—the King is unlikely to interfere, so long as reports are sent regularly and you present yourself at court from time to time."
A ripple of surprise passed through the room, though each gave a small nod at the implications.
Mors, thoughtful, said, "It seems His Grace favors me more than I imagined…"
Loreza inclined her head, though with hesitation. "That is not necessarily a good thing, Mors. The weight of that attention is heavier than you can imagine. Remember how many attempts on your life have already been stopped—this will paint a far larger target on you. Be careful."
Ashara drew in a sharp breath at the mention of multiple attempts on Mors's life.
He glanced at her, offering a faint, thin smile, and mouthed, Later.
Reluctantly, Ashara held her tongue. The smiles from those around the room—and the knowledge that she was here only at Elia's insistence, representing House Dayne—were reminder enough that this was not the moment to press further.
Loreza's expression softened briefly before she sighed and glanced toward Doran. He took the cue.
"While you were all away, the Yronwoods made trouble over Oberyn's presence, citing his exile," Doran said, his gaze shifting toward his younger brother. "We told them we had no control over his decision to come and aid us in our time of need—something they themselves chose not to do. But… they are still refusing to allow us to see your son, Maron."
He paused, but Oberyn spoke first, his voice calm yet edged with steel. "I understand, brother. I wanted to see little Maron… but clearly, now is not the time."
Loreza reached out, her tone warm with a mother's resolve. "Do not worry, Oberyn. We will bring Maron here—one way or another. He will know you as his father… and me as his grandmother."
Oberyn's eyes softened. "Thank you, Mother."
Doran smiled faintly at Oberyn's restraint, but his expression hardened. "There is more… After our extensive 'interrogation' of the pirates and their collaborators, we know without a doubt that they were in contact with people inside Dorne. We suspect House Yronwood and House Wyl, though we found no proof."
The air in the room chilled. Several shifted in their seats; Oberyn's jaw clenched visibly.
Lewyn broke the tension with a grim smirk. "Proof or not, we'll handle them. And if I know Doran and Loreza well, they're already moving on it."
Loreza's eyes softened with a flicker of pride as she glanced at Doran. He inclined his head, a cold glint in his gaze. "It's in motion. But it will take time."
"No need to say more, Doran," Loreza interjected, the pride still there, though tempered with steel.
She turned back to Mors. "Returning to our main matter—do you have any reservations about this appointment?"
Mors's gaze traveled over the faces in the room before settling on hers. "I do not."
She nodded once, then rose—refusing any offered help—with her cane in hand. When she spoke again, her tone carried the full weight of authority.
"In that case… in the name of King Aerys II, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm… I hereby name you Prince Mors, Lord of—what shall the outpost be called?"
Caught off guard for a moment, Mors thought quickly. "Sunfort. It will be called Sunfort."
Loreza inclined her head. "Then I name you Prince Mors—Lord of Sunfort, Defender of the Dornish Seas, and Shield of Dorne."
The room erupted in cheers, with Oberyn giving an unrestrained whoop. Loreza smiled faintly at the sound.
From a corner, Doran stepped forward with a small, iron-bound chest and set it on the table. "While the prize money hasn't arrived yet, this should be enough to begin reconstruction. Use it well."
The talk turned to plans—garrison numbers, fortifications, supply lines. But the victory hung over them all like the warmth of a summer sun, and for the first time in weeks, the air in Sunspear felt light again.