Sunfort, Early to Mid 277 AC
The late afternoon sun burned low on the horizon, casting long streaks of orange and violet across the waters. The air smelled of brine and salt, mingling with the fresher scents of wild herbs and flowering shrubs that clung to the rocky cliffs. Below, hammers rang and saws rasped as laborers worked on the growing settlement—half-finished homes rising on the eastern side of the isle, storehouses and docks taking shape to the west. The cries of gulls carried overhead, blending with the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks.
Mors and Ashara walked the cliff path at an easy pace, pausing now and then to look over sketches and construction plans. She leaned close, pointing out ideas for the main hall with the same enthusiasm she had shown since arriving a month ago. Their courtship, made official by Loreza and Lord Beric Dayne, had changed the air between them—lighter, warmer, laced with small touches and shared glances.
They had drifted to the cliff's edge, skipping stones across the glittering water and trading jokes, when the sound of hooves carried toward them. Three riders approached at speed—Jeremy, Qerrin, and Bedwyck. The laughter died from Mors's lips as he caught sight of their grim faces. He turned fully, Ashara beside him, waiting as they reined in and dismounted.
Jeremy wasted no time. "My prince," he said, voice tight, "you need to see this." He held out an unsealed letter from Doran.
Mors frowned, opened the letter, and began to read. His eyes widened despite himself, then snapped up to Jeremy, who only gave a heavy nod. The weight of the words settled on him. Ashara, watching closely, stepped nearer, her brows knitting with worry. Mors read the rest with a hard expression before passing the letter into her hands.
Her gasp filled the silence. When she looked up at him, her violet eyes were wide. They held each other's gaze, both understanding.
At last, Mors spoke, his tone cold with disbelief. "I don't know what madness has seized Lord Denys Darklyn… but to hold the King of the Seven Kingdoms captive over something as petty as a charter? This will likely see the end of his line."
Jeremy's jaw was tight. "My prince, this doesn't bode well. If he carries out his threats—if he kills the king—there's no telling what chaos follows."
Ashara's lips pressed thin as Qerrin and Bedwyck stood silently, their faces grave.
Mors thought for a long moment, the sea wind tugging at his hair. "It may not come to that. Still…" His voice sharpened. "Jeremy, send a raven to Sunspear—tell them I ride for Duskendale. Prepare the Eclipse. We'll go with a small force, only the best."
Jeremy stepped forward, concern etched across his face. "My prince, I know your skill—but at the very least, let part of the fleet shadow you."
Mors opened his mouth to refuse, but caught the earnest look in Jeremy's eyes. With a reluctant breath, he gave a small nod. "Very well."
He turned to Ashara. "Ashara—"
"I'm going," she said at once.
He sighed, part exasperation, part fondness. "And gods know I'd want nothing more than to have you beside me. But this will take me too near to King's Landing—and you know why I don't want you anywhere near that place. Please, Ashara. I'd rest easier if you were safe in Sunspear until I return."
Ashara lifted her chin, not pouting—defiant. "This is the second time you've sent me away. There won't be a third. I'm not some delicate southern flower, Mors. I'm a Dornish rose—thorns and all."
That made him smile, even in the shadow of the news. He pulled her into his arms. "I know. That's what I love about you."
Her voice softened against his chest. "Then be careful up there."
He hummed an acknowledgment, released her, and turned toward the castle. Preparations had to be made.
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One Week Later
The Red Keep loomed faint on the horizon, its towers catching the last slanting rays of the sun. Within a few hours, they would reach Duskendale.
They had been stopped by the royal fleet patrolling the waters, but once his identity was confirmed, they were allowed through. Being a Martell—and one tied to the Targaryens—had its advantages.
"Ready yourselves, men," Mors called, his voice carrying over the deck. "I don't know what we'll find when we arrive, but expect tension."
"Aye!" came the steady reply.
Jeremy, standing close, let out a low breath. "It's been years since I last sailed to this coast. I never imagined it would be for something like this. It feels as though the whole realm has gone mad."
Mors glanced at him, noting again how adamantly he had refused to stay behind in Sunfort despite his new responsibilities as Castellan. "Perhaps it has," he said with a sigh. "I think this is only the beginning. The world will grow stranger yet."
The Eclipse sailed on, carrying not only Jeremy but also Ser Qerrin Toland, Ser Idrin Qho, Ser Tahlor Sand, Jorran, Cale, and Daro of the Eclipse Guard. Seven former Spears of the Sun rode with them as well, sent at the order of Prince Lewyn and Princess Loreza. Ser Daven Quarr led that contingent, stern as ever.
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Three Hours Later
The sight before them was a siege in full measure. Rows of tents blanketed the fields around Duskendale, smoke curling from countless campfires. Siege engines loomed on the ridges, and the banners of the Crown ringed the town like a noose.
Mors took in the scene grimly. Months like this… and Aerys still locked inside. What state of mind must he be in?
At the command post, the heart of the host, he saw the gathering of great lords and princes. A rider in Targaryen livery had just arrived, speaking urgently with two men at the center of it all: Lord Tywin Lannister and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
As Mors approached with only Jeremy and Qerrin at his side, the guards let him through at once. All eyes turned toward him. Rhaegar's widened in open surprise before he strode forward, flanked by Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy.
"Mors, my dear cousin!" Rhaegar embraced him as though they were the closest of brothers. "To see you here, in such treacherous times—it soothes my heart."
Mors smiled faintly, though beneath Rhaegar's warmth he felt a flicker of panic radiating through him, sharp and uncontrolled.
"Cousin," Mors answered evenly. "I could not sit idle when I heard what had befallen the King. I brought a small company at once. The rest of my fleet will arrive in days to lend support." He inclined his head to the knights. "Ser Arthur. Ser Barristan. Good to see you both, though I wish it were under better stars."
Arthur clasped his forearm in greeting, his expression grim but respectful. Barristan returned the salute more briskly, his tone clipped. "Aye. Dark times indeed, my prince. We would have given our lives rather than see this happen."
He spoke quickly, almost defensively, as if to a rival before Mors could question his absence. A faint unease clung to him, which Mors noted with curiosity.
Arthur added quietly, "We were not in King's Landing when His Grace chose to meet Lord Denys. And the Queen could not be left unguarded."
Rhaegar, still projecting solemnity, interjected, "Their failure is not what matters now. What matters is resolving this. Lord Denys refuses to yield. He threatens to kill my royal father should we press him further. This cannot be allowed to stand."
Mors met his cousin's eyes, but felt only muted concern there, dim beneath the practiced mask. 'Damn. There's something darker at play here.'
Rhaegar gestured toward the high table where Tywin and Gerold Hightower spoke in low, urgent voices. "Come. Let us hear what they've decided."
Tywin's sharp gaze flicked to Mors as he approached. The look held respect—tempered with something else. Worry? Disappointment? The moment passed, and Tywin turned back to Gerold.
"We cannot let this drag on," Tywin said. "If we yield to Lord Denys's insolence, it will stain the Iron Throne as weak. The other kingdoms will sense blood, and the Targaryen name will suffer for it."
Gerold's voice rumbled back, ironclad. "The Kingsguard cares nothing for politics, my lord. Our charge is His Grace's life. He has been captive for months. If the host does not act, we will storm the gates ourselves."
Rhaegar lifted a hand placatingly. "Your resolve honors your vows, Ser Gerold. But your size alone would see you struck down before reaching the walls. Losing you would be a blow we cannot bear."
Gerold exhaled heavily, but said nothing more.
At last Rhaegar turned back. "For now, we wait. Pressing too soon could cost the King's life. Patience will break Denys faster than steel."
Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod. "Then we wait."
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And so they did. Another week passed, the tension twisting tighter with each day. Then, at last, Tywin gave the order: not for better terms, but for final surrender. Duskendale would yield the King, or the town would burn.
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The Command Tent — Outside Duskendale
It was afternoon when Jeremy arrived, grim-faced, while Mors was tightening the last straps on his armor.
"My prince," Jeremy said, "I just got word from Arthur, Tywin is preparing to storm Duskendale. Barristan Selmy is offering another way—a solo rescue attempt."
Mors stilled, his mind racing. 'So this is it. Aerys lives through this—and Barristan… Barristan remains Kingsguard even into Robert's reign. This must be how it happens.'
He rose at once. "Come. Follow me."
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The command tent was thick with tension when Mors was admitted. Lords and Kingsguard stood in a semicircle, voices sharp but restrained. He caught the end of the argument.
Arthur Dayne's voice carried steel. "No, Ser Barristan. If you must go, then I go with you—or in your place. Two blades will fare better than one. I could help you extract His Grace."
Gerold Hightower stood nearby, jaw clenched, frustration plain. He was too slow for such work, and he knew it.
Rhaegar's reply came low but firm. "No, Arthur. That is exactly why you must not go. You are still young, and your place is at my side. I will not risk another Kingsguard falling here."
Gerold's voice rumbled like stone. "This is what we are sworn to, my prince. The Kingsguard stands or falls with the King."
Barristan lifted a hand, quieting them. "Enough. I will go alone. If I fail, then it was never possible to begin with."
The silence held until Mors stepped forward. "Then I'll go with you."
The words rippled through the tent. Jeremy stiffened beside him, horror plain on his face.
"Absolutely not, my prince," Jeremy burst out. "This is their vow, their duty. It is too dangerous—"
"Cousin," Rhaegar said quickly, though Mors felt the faint pulse of delight beneath his polished mask, "your sentiment honors you. But you are younger even than Arthur. This is not your task. Please, reconsider."
Tywin's golden eyes flicked toward him, surprise flashing across the cool mask.
Arthur and Gerold stared, as though testing the weight of his words. Even Barristan looked caught between protest and… respect.
Mors's voice sharpened. "You forget—Aerys is not only your king, he is my blood. My father was Prince Daeron, uncle to His Grace. This is my duty as much as yours. And Ser Arthur is right: two stand a better chance than one. If one falls, the other can still bear the King out. Tell me—" his eyes swept the room, "does anyone here truly believe I could not hold my own?"
The challenge hung heavy. Arthur and Gerold bristled instinctively, but even they could not deny it. At seventeen, Mors might already be the finest spear in the realm.
At last, Rhaegar inclined his head, reluctant. "Very well." He turned abruptly and left the tent, though Mors felt the storm of envy and frustration rolling off him.
Tywin studied him for a long, hard moment, and what lingered in his gaze this time was respect. "If you fall, Prince Mors, Dorne may never recover."
"I won't," Mors answered simply.
Tywin gave a single nod and departed.
One by one, the Kingsguard regarded him anew. Gerold broke the silence first, laying a heavy hand on Mors's shoulder. "The Sun of Dorne," he said, his voice solemn. "I see it now." He inclined his head and strode out.
Jeremy turned on him, stricken. "Mors—please. This is madness."
Mors softened, meeting his eyes. "Jeremy. Trust me. I'll get us all in and out—safely."
Jeremy swallowed, unable to speak, but gave a tight nod.
Arthur stepped closer. "Mors… good-brother. Do you not think of Ashara? If you fall, she may well follow you into the grave."
Mors arched a brow. "Arthur—you've known me for years. Do I look suicidal to you?"
Arthur's mouth twitched. "Yes. Utterly. A lunatic."
They both laughed, tension breaking. Even Barristan smiled faintly.
The old knight's voice was quiet. "So you mean to stand beside me. You understand, don't you? They don't expect this to succeed. It is a death sentence."
Mors's smirk carried iron. "It was a death sentence. Now? Now it's certain."
Arthur groaned, but there was warmth in it. Barristan gave a short nod. "Then let us prepare. At dusk, we go."
He left the tent. Arthur and Mors clasped forearms in a warrior's farewell.
"The gods be with you, brother," Arthur said.
Mors nodded once. "Aye."
And then it was time to get ready.