…
Three men strode forward from the ranks. The leader bore a noble, hard-cut face—stern, yet lined with impatience. A sardonic smile tugged at his mouth as he tried to cloak it beneath a veneer of courtesy.
"Prince Mors Targaryen," he announced. "I am Ser Jaremy Rykker, Commander of the City Watch. With me are my captains, Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Harwyn Buckle. By royal command, we are to escort you to the Red Keep. Come quietly—there's no need for this to turn unpleasant."
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Mors scanned the crowd. At least two hundred Gold Cloaks surrounded them, shields ready though swords remained sheathed. He turned to Barristan, Qerrin, Arthur, Garth, and Daro, his voice low.
"They don't recognize you. Keep your hoods up. We follow… but wait for my signal."
He stepped forward, lowering his hood to face Ser Jaremy Rykker.
"Very well. Lead on. But, Commander, does this not seem… excessive? Two hundred men for such a simple summons? I shouldn't need to remind you—I am an advisor to the king, and a great lord of the realm."
Before Rykker could answer, Ser Alliser Thorne spoke, venom on his tongue. It seems he had been holding in some opinions about Mors.
"You may look like them, my lord, but you are a Martell." He spat the name. "And have you not noticed? Great lords are dying rather easily these days. Aye." The cruel satisfaction in his voice twisted the words.
"Alliser, enough!" Rykker barked, but the damage was done.
They had been walking as they spoke, but Mors halted. The others stopped as well, tension rising like drawn steel. Alliser stood smirking, unapologetic—until Mors moved.
Crack.
A lightning-fast punch smashed into his jaw, teeth shattering. Alliser flew two yards back, crashing into the line of men and dropping several with him.
"Prince Mors!" Rykker spun, drawing steel.
Mors's gaze cut into him with contempt. "That was mercy. Had I wished, he'd be dead. Do not forget who I am. I am a Targaryen. The king is my cousin. I am prince of this realm, yet you stand by as your men speak so? You allow this, Commander? Are you rebelling!"
Even as he spoke, Mors's eyes flicked to Idrin and the others who had arrived in the confusion, lingering by the merchant cart now piled with hay to keep their cover. A quick nod sent them into motion, and with a sharp flick of his hand he signaled those behind him—Arthur, Qerrin, Garth, Daro, and Barristan.
Rykker faltered, sheathing his blade. The Gold Cloaks, misreading, lowered shields and eased back. "No… I—this was an oversight, a misunderstanding. It will—"
Boom.
Fire-flasks burst in the sky. In the chaos, Mors slammed into Rykker, driving him through the men behind. Over twenty fell. Dazed, Rykker barely had time to groan before Mors struck again, a sharp jab to the jaw that dropped him unconscious. Tossing him aside, Mors surged through the gap.
His companions ran with him as a cart of burning hay roared into the street, rolled in by Cale "the Brute." Behind them, chaos erupted as fire and smoke filled the alleys. An explosion thundered near the Dragonpit ruins—a diversion.
Only when they were certain they weren't pursued did they stop to breathe.
Ser Idrin grinned. "Well, that was exciting."
Ser Tahlor shot Arodan a look. "Didn't you say this would be in and out?"
Arodan rolled his eyes, muttering, "Obviously, something went wrong."
"Seven hells," Barristan growled. "What's going on? How did they find us?"
Mors gave him a pitying look. "You think you weren't followed? I saw someone slip away, smug as a rat. I'm certain it was Varys."
"Varys?" Barristan frowned, then realization struck. He nodded grimly. "Yes… if it was him, it makes sense. That dishonorable cur… but why?"
Arodan's eyes widened, a knowing look flashing across his face.
"We'll discuss it as we move," Mors said. "We still need to free Eddard."
"Is that wise?" Barristan pressed. "If Varys is involved, they'll be waiting. It could be a trap."
Mors smirked faintly. "Of course it's a trap. But a trap only works if it's sprung. I won't waste their efforts now."
Barristan stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Idrin, meanwhile, laughed so hard tears streaked his face, and he slapped Cale on the back.
Cale, scowling, shoved him. "Knock it off, you idiot!"
Mors rolled his eyes. "Enough. Move! We don't have time to waste."
They broke into a run again, now with Ser Idrin, Ser Tahlor, Cale, and Arodan falling in alongside them.
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They reached a dead-end alley in Flea Bottom, where brush and stone hid a rise of the Red Keep's hill. After ensuring they weren't followed, Barristan lifted a torch from the ground, lit it, and handed it to Arthur. He then drew his blade and pressed it into a narrow slot between stone and earth.
Click.
A concealed door swung open. They slipped inside, sealing it behind them. Barristan used the torch to light torches on the ground and handed them out. Then started walking down the hidden passage.
Arthur frowned. "Barristan… why did I not know of this?"
The older knight gave a dry smirk. "At any time, only two Kingsguard know of these passages, along with the Commander. The longest-serving brothers, usually. At present… myself, and Ser—" He caught himself.
Arthur's eyes widened. "Ser Harlan."
Barristan's expression soured, but Mors cut in. "We're past that now. And if I'm not mistaken, someone else already knows of these passages."
"You don't mean Varys," Barristan said skeptically. "He's been here too little time. How could he know what many Kingsguard don't?"
Mors shook his head. "That's what he does—uncovers what's meant to stay hidden. If I had to guess, he saw you or Harlan use one of the doors… and the Spider never lets go once he finds a thread."
Barristan grimaced, the silence heavy before he finally sighed. "Harlan… aye. I can see that. He's not the man he once was." With that, he pressed on into the dark.
Mors's eyes lingered on him, a thought unspoken. 'It could have been Barristan himself… but I won't call him on it.'
Occasional water dripped from the stone above as they traversed the dark passage.
Garth whispered, "Do these tunnels connect the whole Red Keep?"
Barristan mulled it over. "Some do. Others lead to hidden places in the city. Some are blocked. Even after centuries, I doubt we've found all the secrets of this castle."
At last they reached the hidden passage that seemed to be the destination Barristan had sought. "Here. Beyond lies the dungeon where Lord Eddard is held. There will be guards…" He exhaled, weariness plain. "Try not to kill them. Please."
Mors inclined his head. "Of course, Ser Barristan. I'm sure you noticed—we could have killed half the Watch earlier, but we didn't. We only want Stark."
Relief softened Barristan's features. "Aye. Then wait for my word."
The passage unlocked with a dull click. Barristan slipped through first, listening intently. His face darkened as he turned back. "No guards. Not a sound… strange."
Arthur frowned at Mors. "The trap?"
Mors gave an easy shrug, lips quirking. "Your guess is as good as mine. Let's see."
Barristan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seven help me, I don't think I've sighed this much in my life."
They moved carefully through the dim halls, past empty cells. Turning the last corner, they froze.
A lone man sat with a sword laid across his knees. Rising slowly, he came to his full height—towering near six foot seven (200 cm), shoulders broad, mail and white-enameled plate gleaming faintly in the torchlight. A heavy cloak draped his back. His shoulder-length hair, streaked with grey, framed a weathered yet noble face. Planting the sword before him, hands resting on the hilt, he stood in a sentinel's stance. His very presence commanded the space.
"Prince Mors?" His voice was deep, measured, carrying in the silence. "So it's you. I've been expecting you."
Mors blinked in surprise, then dipped his chin. "Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. Of all men, I did not think to find you here."
Gerold's gaze shifted past him. "Ser Barristan. Ser Arthur." He gave them a nod of recognition.
Both knights stiffened, then saluted. "Lord Commander."
Mors's violet eyes narrowed. "You wait for us, yet you stand alone. What is your purpose here?"
Gerold looked down at the blade in his hands, turning it slowly. "Purpose? I am a Kingsguard. That is purpose enough. But when word reached me—left on a note, no doubt bait—that someone would come for Lord Stark, I chose to come alone. I'm weary of needless slaughter. If you would have Eddard Stark, then first you must go past me." He lifted his helm, settled it over his head, and hefted his shield. "So tell me—shall it be all at once? Or will I have the chance to face Prince Mors myself?"
Arthur stepped forward. "Let me. You needn't do this."
But Mors shook his head firmly. "No. A knight such as Ser Gerold comes once in a generation. This honor is mine. Hold the passage."
He drew his sword and Valyrian dagger, stepping forward to take his place. With Solaris left behind for the infiltration, he settled into a dual-wielding guard, both blades poised and ready. "May it be a worthy fight, Lord Commander."
Gerold's voice rumbled through the helm. "Aye. May it be so."
He surged forward with a heavy slash.
Steel rang as Mors angled aside, tapping the strike wide with almost casual precision, his dagger flashing as he stepped in for a kick. Gerold braced, his shield absorbing the impact, yet still slid back with widened eyes.
"By the Warrior," he muttered. "Your strength… it's greater than mine." A feral smile touched his lips as he charged again, shield-first.
Mors vaulted up, planting a foot on the shield, flipping over the lord commander's shoulder. He slashed downward as he passed. Gerold caught the blow on his sword, but the sheer force staggered him back a step. Mors landed lightly, pressed the attack, sword flashing in quick arcs. Gerold met him strike for strike, shield clanging, blade darting in tight ripostes.
The younger man's speed was blistering. Twice Mors slipped inside Gerold's guard, his dagger kissing at weak points in the armor—throat, underarm—yet he pulled the blades away at the last instant, letting the fight breathe. Gerold's seasoned eye caught it, and though his lungs heaved, he straightened with grim pride.
"Not mercy," he growled, pushing forward with another sweep of his shield, "show respect!"
Their blades clashed again and again, sparks dancing in the gloom. Gerold's strength was immense, every strike of his greatsword carrying bone-breaking weight, but Mors absorbed it, redirected it, and flowed around it like water. Still, he gave the lord commander room to answer, parrying with enough restraint that Gerold could keep his footing.
Finally, Gerold overcommitted on a thrust. Mors turned his dagger against the blade, pivoted, and drove a brutal kick into the center of the white breastplate.
The Kingsguard commander was hurled back four yards, crashing to the stones. His armor caved where the blow had landed.
Groaning, he forced himself upright. "Seven save me… feels like a mule kicked me." He spat a mouthful of blood onto the stone, then reached for his sword again with stubborn resolve.
Mors approached, point of his sword lowering to Gerold's throat. His voice was calm, but in the quiet felt chilling. "Yield."
The word seemed to thunder in the narrow hall.
Gerold looked down at his dented breastplate, then up at the young prince. His breath left him in a sigh. "You still went easy on me…" His sword slipped from his grip. "Yield… I yield."
Mors sheathed his blades, then extended a hand. "Good."
Gerold hesitated, then accepted the grasp, hauled to his feet. "Why?" His voice cracked with something heavier than battle. "Knowing I barred your way—why spare me?"
"Because you carried no true killing intent," Mors said simply. "This was duty, not malice. You came alone to spare your men, didn't you?"
Gerold's eyes widened, but he said nothing.
At that moment a gaunt, shackled, and gagged Ned Stark leaned weakly against the bars. The sight of Mors made his eyes gleam with desperate hope.
"Quickly—get him out," Mors ordered.
Idrin, Tahlor, Cale, and Jorran rushed to Eddard Stark's cell, while Arodan, Qerrin, Garth, and Daro held their posts in the hall.
Arthur and Barristan stepped toward Gerold, burdened with unspoken thoughts, unsure what words could meet the moment.
As they worked at the cell, Gerold turned to Arthur. "Ser Arthur. I can imagine what you've endured. Since you have chosen your path, do not let vows chain you. As Lord Commander, I release you—honorably discharged from the Kingsguard. May you still embody the best of knighthood."
Arthur's breath hitched. His eyes burned. He bowed his head deeply, voice choked. "Thank you, lord commander."
Then Gerold faced Barristan. "Ser Barristan… my friend. You've ever upheld your vows. But remember—you are a knight before all else."
Barristan started. "Gerold, I only—"
Gerold raised a gauntlet to still him. "It is too late for me. My vows bind me deeply, even as they consume me. But for you…" He drew in a breath, voice low but resolute. "As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I hereby release you. Serve honor, not madness."
Barristan's face twisted with shock and grief. "No… Gerold, don't—"
But Gerold only shook his head, lifting his helm again. Without another word, he turned and limped into the shadows, alone.
By then, the cell had been opened. Cale and Jorran helped carry the frail Lord Stark out. "Prince… Mors…" Ned rasped. "Thank you."
Mors gave a steady smile. "Rest, friend." He laid a hand on Ned's brow, sending a pulse of aura to ease him into unconsciousness. "Cale, carry him. Jorran, aid him if necessary. We move on."
As the others passed through the secret door, Barristan lingered behind, torn.
Mors paused. "Ser Barristan. You feel lost. Conflicted. But the realm needs knights like you. I need knights like you. Walk with me—for now. You'll find your answer in time."
For a long moment, Barristan searched his eyes. Then he nodded. "…Very well."
The hidden passage sealed shut behind them, plunging all into consuming darkness.
Mors let out a long sigh, palm to his face. "Seven hells… did no one think to light the torch?"
…
…
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As they neared the end of the hidden passage, the faint scent of salt filled the air. They unbarred the exit, and the sea and rocks came into view. Night had fallen, visibility was poor. Behind them loomed a sheer cliff that seemed to rise straight into the Red Keep itself, impossible to climb.
Mors peered out. "I think we're behind the Red Keep. Barristan—do you know the way from here?"
Barristan shook his head. "No. I only knew the passage existed. I've never taken it."
Mors grunted, stepping further out to scout. "Our destination is the Kingswood, past Blackwater Bay. If we can't find or build a vessel… we swim."
Daro cracked a grin. "Then there's no time like the present."
They searched the rocky shore, but found little. No trees, no driftwood—only jagged stone and scrub. Mors cursed inwardly. 'Damn it. We'll have to swim.'
Then three lights appeared across the water, drifting closer from the direction of Blackwater Bay.
Mors straightened. "At attention. Someone's coming."
They tightened formation, Eddard's unconscious body protected in the center.
Three boats closed in, about fifty men in all. A few leveled bows at them. Even in the dark, Mors could see enough—their gear was mismatched, their posture loose. Not Gold Cloaks. Sellswords most likely.
From the middle boat a man called, "Aye! Any of you Mors?"
Mors feigned ignorance. "Mors? Who's that? Our boat sank—we stumbled into this inlet. Care to help?"
One of the sellswords muttered to his leader, "Boss, you think that bald lord lied to us?"
The leader shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We were paid to kill, so we kill. Boys, take—"
A knife silenced him, buried in his eye. In the same heartbeat, more blades flashed, felling half a dozen before the sellswords knew what struck them.
"Take them out!" Mors roared, aura flooding his men as he charged, sword and dagger drawn.
Steel rang. Mors cut one down with a thrust, parried another blow with his dagger, and spun into a killing stroke.
Barristan gasped as he cleaved through an attacker, surprise flaring across his face. His body felt… sharper, faster. "What's happening to me?" he muttered as he struck again.
Arthur cut a man down beside him. "You'll know soon enough. For now—fight."
Behind them, Garth and Qerrin held Mors's flanks, thinning the sellswords with relentless precision.
Within ten minutes, the fight was done. Only three captives remained, bound and quivering.
Daro crouched nearby, helping Arodan Sand bind a shallow cut.
Mors gave a curt order. "Prep one of the boats. Sink the other two." He turned to the prisoners. "I'll spare one of you. The rest die. The one who lives is the one who answers me best. Understood?"
"Please—spare me!" one begged.
"No, me! I'm doing this for my dog!" another piped up, as if that settled everything.
"Wait—my sick sixty-year-old daughter and my five-year-old mother need me!" the third cried, words tumbling into absurdity.
Mors raised an eyebrow, stifling a snort. He let the pleadings die, then asked the first question. "What were your orders?"
All three stammered the same. "To kill Mors—or anyone near here."
Mors pressed. "What did he look like?"
"Bald."
"Bald, strange voice."
"Cloaked… smelled like flowers. Or rot."
Mors's jaw tightened. 'Varys.'
"Final question," he said. "What were your orders after success?"
"We were to return to the inn in Fishmonger Square. Collect the rest of the coin."
"Good." Mors nodded—and without hesitation, cut down the first two.
The last one wept in relief. "Thank you, thank you!"
"You're welcome…" Mors said softly, then flicked a hand. Qerrin's blade did the rest.
Mors murmured as the body hit the ground, "I said I'd spare you. I never promised what the others would do."
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They rowed quietly toward the Kingswood, avoiding ships as best they could. The hush of the night, the tang of salt on the air, and the steady drip of water from the oars offered a strange calm after so much chaos.
Halfway across Blackwater Bay, alarms rang from King's Landing.
"Hurry," Mors urged, pulling hard at the oars. "Eddard's absence has been found out. This is the final stretch."
They reached the Kingswood in record time and dragged the boat deep among the trees, hiding it from view.
Eddard stirred, groaning as his eyes fluttered open. "No! Don't—please… huh. I'm out… Mors… thank you."
Mors knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Eddard, we're in the Kingswood. Just a little further, and you'll be safe. Sleep a while longer—you'll wake in peace."
"Thank… you…" Eddard breathed, before Mors sent him back into slumber with a touch of aura.
"Let's move," Mors ordered.
They pressed through the forest until they came to Wendwater Lake, where their ship lay hidden.
Mors gave a low call. "You can come out—it's us."
Ten men emerged from the shadows, bows drawn. At their head was Ser Bedwyck. "Prince Mors?"
"Aye, it's me."
Relief swept through the men as they lowered their weapons. The sight of the prince and his company—dirty, torn, but alive—was enough.
"Good," Bedwyck said, though his eyes flicked warily to Barristan Selmy. "Are we leaving at once?"
"Yes," Mors replied. "They may be on our tail. This is Ser Barristan Selmy—he's with us now."
Though surprised, the men held their tongues. Together they pulled the Eclipse from its hiding place and set out into the Wendwater.
As they slipped back into Blackwater Bay, lights could be seen combing the coasts to the northwest.
Arthur frowned. "They're searching the shores near King's Landing."
"No resting," Mors said firmly. "We move until we reach my fleet. Only then will we be safe."
Fortunately, the Eclipse cut through the water faster than most ships. Before long, the danger was behind them.
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One Week Later – Sunfort, The Stepstones
Mors had returned that morning after leaving Eddard in Maester Orwyn's care, a raven already sent to Lord Rickard Stark with the news of his son's safety. Arthur and Barristan had gone off to speak in private. The war had shifted greatly in the last two weeks, but Mors set those thoughts aside for now. Ashara was so relieved to have him back that she had scarcely let him out of her sight.
Oh, and he was a traitor now. King Aerys had declared that all his forces should focus on bringing him to justice…
Ashara, Elia, Malora, Alyssa, Lewyn, and Mors shared dinner together.
Elia spoke first. "Brother, what you did was brave, but reckless. You must take more care."
Lewyn, the patch over his eye lending him a roguish air, shook his head. "Elia, I know your concern. We all share it. But Mors is no longer a boy, he is a great lord of the realm, and much more. With the strength he carries, he's shown remarkable restraint. Were it me, I'd be a one-man killing machine of war, in the thick of it all."
Ashara reached across the table. "Perhaps. But it doesn't stop the worry. Still, I'm glad Lord Stark lives—though he looked in poor health. But now we are officially at war…"
A somber silence fell until Malora cut in brightly.
"It's fine! Morsy beat them up and showed who's boss. It was fun to watch. He can keep doing it."
Mors arched a brow. "You were spying again, weren't you?"
Malora grinned unrepentantly. "Only when I could. You spent too much time at sea—it was dull. Oh, and what's that game you play when peeing? Are you trying to see how far it goes?"
Mors dragged a hand down his face. 'Of course that's what she'd watch for.'
The table erupted in laughter, echoing through the hall. Even Elia chuckled, and Ashara shook her head with a smile she couldn't quite hide. Malora only grinned wider, basking in the chaos she had stirred.
For the first time in many days, the sound of war and worry seemed far away.