At dusk, cloaked in shadow, Mors and Barristan slipped toward the castle walls. They moved like wraiths from cover to cover, the faint torchlight never touching them. Barristan, though famed as one of the realm's greatest knights, found himself quietly astonished. The way Mors moved—silent, fluid, almost prescient—was uncanny. He seemed to predict the rhythm of the guards' steps, to know when a man would turn before he did. To Barristan, this was not simply skill—it was something beyond.
They scaled a covered section of wall, one of the most heavily watched. Yet, with perfect timing, they flowed through an opening as if the watch itself had conspired to let them pass.
Inside, their memorized map narrowed their choices: the King would either be in the dungeon or the solar in the main tower.
Mors whispered low, "So, according to your plan, we check the dungeon first?"
Barristan gave a terse nod. "Aye. They've shown him no courtesy so far. I'd wager the dungeons."
"Good," Mors murmured. "The coast is clear—this way."
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They crept to the dungeon stair, peering into the torchlit chamber below. Six men sat within: two at dice, two deep in drink, one jeering at the frail figure of King Aerys, and the last—broad, grim—sharpening his blade with a worried scowl.
Barristan's eyes narrowed. "Symon Hollard. Master of Arms to Lord Darklyn."
Mors's jaw tightened. "Leave them to me. You free the King. Make sure no one touches him—especially not as a shield. Once you have him, prepare to move."
Barristan turned sharply. "You—"
"No time," Mors cut in, sliding knives from his thigh sheaths. His violet eyes caught the torchlight. "Gerold was right. You are Kingsguard—you fall or rise with your King. Efficiency is what matters now. On three."
He raised his fingers.
One.
Two.
Barristan set his jaw, sword ready.
Three.
They burst into the chamber.
Two knives flashed, embedding in eye and throat. The dice players collapsed before their mugs hit the ground. The room erupted.
Barristan's blade sang as he struck down the man who had mocked the King, cutting him clean before the drunk could even raise a defense.
Mors moved like the wind. Two knives struck home, crippling their targets mid-motion and buying him the breath he needed. He closed in, short sword and dagger flashing, overwhelming his foes with brutal grace. One throat opened beneath his thrust. The second man's blade slashed wide as Mors twisted past it, sweeping his legs from under him. In the same motion, Mors drove his short sword down, ending him before he hit the ground.
A dagger whistled through the air. Mors twisted mid-turn, vaulting aside as it skimmed past. His own dagger answered, spinning back at its source. Symon Hollard knocked it away with a snap of his wrist—fast, skilled, dangerous.
Mors's eyes lit with anticipation, pulling out another dagger to dual wield.
They clashed in a sudden storm—steel on steel, short sword and dagger against longsword. Hollard was skilled, but Mors was merciless. His speed and precision carved the man down piece by piece—blood welled from arm, then ribs, then neck. In a blur, Mors slipped behind him and drove a dagger up through the base of his skull, ending it with one decisive thrust. All of it within the span of a single breath—he never stood a chance.
He eased the corpse to the ground in silence.
When he turned back, the dungeon was quiet save for the ragged breath of the King.
Aerys Targaryen sat slumped in chains, thin and filthy, his hair matted, his eyes fever-bright. Yet when they fixed on Mors, they gleamed with something fierce and unnerving. Barristan, halfway through unfastening the manacles, froze for an instant, drawn instead to watch as Mors fought like a storm unleashed.
"You came…" Aerys whispered hoarsely, then laughed, a high, broken sound. "Hah! You came. I knew it. I can trust you. Yes… good. Good…"
His words slurred, his body trembled, but the manic light in his eyes lingered.
Mors kept his tone soft. "We'll get you out. Barristan—the chains. Quickly, we need to move."
The Kingsguard blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and bent back to his task with renewed urgency.
As the chains fell, Mors's ears caught faint steps. He held up a hand. "Two men approaching. Wait."
When they drew near, he struck like a shadow—slitting one throat, choking the other into silence before stabbing his heart. Both bodies were lowered gently to the stone.
"Go," Mors hissed.
They moved through the castle, taking advantage of the calm while it lasted.
Mors whispered, "When the fire start, we hurry back to our entry point, this should make it easier."
At the base of the main tower, Mors lit a fire flask and hurled it through an open window. Flames leapt instantly, smoke billowing upward. Bells rang, shouts erupted, and the fortress's focus snapped to the tower in chaos.
"Now," Mors ordered.
They retraced their steps, cutting down stragglers with clean, merciless efficiency. Barristan and Mors bore Aerys between them, the King half-collapsing with every step until at last he drifted into unconsciousness, spent from fear and sudden release. Now and then a whisper escaped his cracked lips—fragmented, fevered mutters.
"Burn… them. Kill…"
"…Dragon…"
They slipped back through the walls, the sea breeze carrying smoke and cries behind them.
Mors cast one last glance at the burning keep, the sky paling with dawn, then at the back of Barristan carrying the king.
'Forgive me, Barristan. This should have been your moment to shine. But I need some of that influence for myself and for Dorne,' Mors thought grimly, the weight of consequence pressing against his chest. '… I wonder what this will change in the days to come.'
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The camp was alive with shock and celebration. The King was saved. Prince Mors Martell of Dorne and Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the finest knights of the Kingsguard, had slipped into Duskendale's walls and brought Aerys out alive. That Barristan had done it was almost expected—songs already called him the Bold. But that Mors, a Dornish prince not even eighteen, had gone with him—that was something else. It spoke of blood ties between the Crown and Dorne, and of a youth becoming something far more.
At Lannisport, he had won glory in sport. Here, in war, he had carved it into reality. Rumors of his feats in the Stepstones no longer seemed Dornish propaganda. The Prince of Dorne had rescued his cousin, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Songs would remember it.
By dawn, Lord Denys Darklyn had opened his gates, begging for mercy. He found none.
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The Next Morning
King Aerys II stood unsteady, washed and robed, though frail, his eyes too bright. Before him knelt the shackled court of Duskendale—Lord Denys, Lady Serala of Myr, their kin, and sworn allies.
"Tell me, little lord," Aerys hissed, spittle flying, "have you more taunts? Another wish?"
"Your Grace…" Denys whispered, trembling. "Mercy."
Aerys's lips twitched, and then he broke into laughter—ragged, rising, until it shook his whole frame. The camp fell silent at the sound. He coughed harshly, then straightened with sudden fury.
"Mercy? There will be no mercy! Were it not for my Kingsguard—and for Mors—your treason would have ended me!" His finger stabbed toward Gerold Hightower. "Execute them all. Every Darklyn, every Hollard with ties to this treachery. Let their name vanish from the realm."
Gasps rippled through the lords gathered, but none spoke.
Aerys's gaze found a child among the prisoners. His voice turned shrill. "You, little wretch—was it amusing to pull your King's beard? You'll die on the rack. Let the realm hear your screams."
Then Serala. His face contorted. "And you, Myrish witch… you will BURN!" His laughter rang high, breaking into coughing fits. "Take me back to my tent. Mors—walk with me."
Mors's stomach tightened, but he obeyed.
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The King's Tent
Aerys lay down heavily, then waved everyone out save Gerold Hightower—and Mors. His muttering never ceased. "Tywin… Rhaegar… they thought to be rid of me. They should burn. No, not yet… too useful… but snakes, all of them…"
At last his fever-bright eyes focused. "Mors. Only you can I trust. Yes… the Kingsguard are sworn, but you—you are loyal, blood and fire both. If only you could be my Dragonknight…"
Mors swallowed. That was the last thing he wanted.
But Aerys rambled on. "No, no… not a guard. Too small for you. Bigger things. Rhaegar thinks himself so clever, but he hides behind smiles. He'd never dare face me. Hah! But you—yes, you…"
Mors forced his voice steady. "Your Grace—"
"—my advisor!" Aerys crowed, startling him. "Yes. You'll be my personal advisor. Gerold, did you hear?"
Gerold gave a slow nod. "Yes, Your Grace."
Aerys's mood shifted again, suddenly intent. "In Duskendale I thought long. Why did this happen? Why would Denys turn traitor? Then I remembered your letters, Mors—about the Stepstone pirates, about Myr. Of course. It was them. Myr and the others, furious I backed Volantis. Denys was their pawn. And Tywin, Rhaegar—they must have been part of it too. But you…" His grin spread, almost boyish. "They never counted on you. My secret weapon."
Mors's thoughts raced. 'That leap makes little sense… though I can see how he might arrive at it. But if he believes it—if he acts on it—the realm will pay the price.'
"Prince Mors Targa—ah, Martell," Aerys corrected himself, twitching. "I have an important mission for you. Conquer the Three Daughters. Yes! Lys, Myr, Tyrosh. Burn them, bleed them dry!"
Barristan entered quietly at that, freezing when he heard the words.
After a measured pause, Mors forced his voice into calm steadiness. "Your Grace… cousin. A war across the sea would only unite your enemies against you. But strike at what they prize most—their trade, their coin—and they will wither without a blade being drawn. Desperation will do the rest. They might even kill each other for the scraps."
Aerys's eyes widened. He shot upright with sudden clarity. "Yes! Brilliant! Their trade! The Stepstones—ours by right since the Rogue Prince took them. You'll take them back, in my name. That will strangle the Free Cities. Hah!"
He turned wild-eyed to Gerold and Barristan. "Bear witness! By my decree —I name you, Prince Mors Martell-Targaryen: Prince of the Stepstones, Warden of the Dornish Seas, and Advisor to the Crown. My own counselor, bound to none but me!"
His voice rose into manic laughter that broke apart into a fit of coughing, his frame shaking with the force of it.
Aerys abruptly rolled onto his side, voice muffled but sharp. "Dismissed. Tell me what you need to make it happen."
Then his eyes fluttered shut, as if the world itself no longer concerned him.
Mors remained motionless, the weight of it sinking in. With a single word from a madman, his station—and his fate—had shifted forever. At last, he bowed his head, forcing the words out evenly. "Very well… Your Grace."
He rose, offering a brief nod to Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan before leaving the tent.
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Outside the Tent
As he walked out, he heard someone call him from behind, "Prince Mors, please wait a moment."
Barristan caught him just as he stepped out of the tent. His face was solemn, voice carrying the weight of an oath.
"Prince Mors… we, the Kingsguard, owe you a debt. You helped restore our honor when it was most tarnished. Should our vows allow it, know that we will answer your call."
He hesitated then, the words seeming to stick in his throat before he forced them out, quieter, almost personal.
"And… make Arthur's sister happy. You are her sun."
He left without another word.
Mors scratched the back of his head, expression caught somewhere between bemusement and disbelief. 'You'd think he was Ashara's ex… or her elder brother, the way he talks.'
He lingered a moment longer, watching Barristan's broad back vanish into the lamplit tent. Then he sighed, turned, and let his gaze settle on the empty camp road ahead—silent, heavy with shadows, and leading only toward greater storms.
He kept replaying the image of the King shrieking for fire, for flesh to burn. The sound clung to him like smoke. It was a hinge in time, he realized—a moment that proved Aerys had slipped wholly into madness. Yet madness or not, the elevation served Mors perfectly. A title, authority, royal sanction—tools he could wield.
He didn't know when the rebellion would ignite, but he remembered the great tourney at Harrenhal would come first. And now, with this new power, he could hasten Dorne's rise—strengthening the Stepstones, and through them, himself—shaping it all for what was surely to come.
He exhaled slowly, the taste of ash still on his tongue. "I feel dirty," he murmured. Then he turned toward his tent, ready to gather his men and prepare for departure. His projects would no longer simply expand—they would surge.