Bloodstone Sea, Mid to Late 277 AC
Two Month Later
A battle was raging across the waters. Arrows hissed through the air, cutting into the decks of three pirate ships making a desperate bid to escape. Three others had already been subdued through sheer overwhelming force, and those still left ashore were broken under Ser Bedwyck's brutal charge.
On Mors's flagship, the crew worked the great ballista into position. With a deep creak of timber, it released—a massive iron ball chained to its twin whistled across the gap and slammed into the mast of the largest ship in the fleeing formation. Wood shattered. The mast toppled, dragging canvas and rigging down into the sea. The ship lurched, slowed, and finally drifted to a dead halt—left a helpless carcass on the waves.
The pirates panicked. Some scrambled to lower small boats, only to be cut down by withering arrow fire. A few leapt into the sea, thrashing toward the other two ships still running for open water, but most floundered, some vanishing beneath the waves.
Three intermediate galleys bore down on the fleeing vessels. They rammed one, grappling hooks biting into its railings as boarders surged across. The second, lighter and quicker, managed to slip away into the haze of salt spray.
The pirates aboard the crippled flagship threw down their weapons as Dornish patrol ships closed in, surrounding them with spearpoints bristling from every angle. They were seized without mercy.
Mors's gaze shifted to the lone ship still making its escape. A flicker of cruelty sparked in his violet eyes.
"Shoot fire arrows," he commanded.
Archers dipped shafts into oil-soaked bindings, touched them to flame, and loosed. Mors took a bow himself, nocking an arrow, setting it alight. Together, they let fly. Half the arrows struck true, sails bursting into flame. Fire spread across the rigging, crackling as the ship slowed, smoke curling into the sky.
The pirates, frantic, lowered a boat, others diving overboard in desperation. Patrol ships swept in to hem them close, cutting off the escape. The boat was seized, and those struggling in the water were dragged out—choking, coughing, defeated.
Ashara lowered her own bow, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Is it over?" she asked, her voice weary but steady.
Mors looked over the captured ships, then back toward the island. Slowly, a smirk tugged at his lips.
"Almost. Let's do one more sweep."
He turned to Querrin, who stood waiting just behind.
"Same order. Get those prisoners to the island. They've just volunteered for free labor."
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It was late afternoon when Mors stood at the prow of his heavy warship, Ashara armored at his side as their fleet swept through the Northern Stepstones. With her hair bound in a high ponytail and clad in Dornish light armor, she looked every bit the warrior, and Mors quietly approved of the sight.
They were performing a final sweep of the waters around Bloodstone—an island steeped in history. Once the seat of Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, during his brief reign as King of the Stepstones, it had long been regarded as the region's traditional capital. Though he had no intention of making it his main seat, Mors intended to secure it as one of three major command stations, alongside Torturer's Deep to the east and Dark Den to the south. To the west, near the Dornish coast, he planned a smaller outpost to serve as a staging ground.
Each command station would be led by an appointed commander—granted the standing of a landed knight, though bound to office rather than inheritance. Mors would retain half of the fleet under his direct command; the remaining half would be divided evenly among the three stations. Their task was to suppress piracy and enforce tolls on passing traffic. This was, after all, one of the most strategic waterways in the known world. Free Cities vessels would be required to pay safe-passage tolls, Westerosi fleets would be granted reduced rates, and Dorne's ships would pass freely. Myr, singled out for its backing of the pirate lords, would face expanded tariffs—and the occasional "pirate attack" that claimed a ship or two. Letters outlining these terms had already been sent to the Free Cities.
Resistance had proven mostly minimal. Aside from a few diehard captains like those just put down, most pirates abandoned the islands once they realized which way the tide was turning. The reinforcements and supplies sent from the Crown had proven invaluable, and on this sweep of their two-month campaign, the fleet had now been at sea for two weeks without returning to Sunfort.
Once the islands were secured, each commander was assigned a force of two heavy warships, three intermediate galleys, and fifteen light patrol ships—supported by two hundred men at sea and a garrison of one hundred on land. It was not an ideal strength, but it was a solid start—more than enough to sweep the Stepstones clean and make Mors's new rule over them absolute and unmistakable.
Ser Bedwyck Uller had been promoted to Commander of Bloodstone, with Ser Qerrin Toland appointed as the new Master of Arms and Captain of the Guard. Ser Indro Qho took command of Torturer's Deep, while Ser Tahlor Sand was given Dark Den. The boys were moving up in the world.
Oberyn had joined Mors on his return voyage from Sunspear to Sunfort, remaining for two weeks before continuing his "exile" in the Free Cities. This time, he agreed to settle in Myr. Arodan Sand, one of Mors's spymasters, accompanied him with a handpicked team tasked to dig deeper into Myr's intrigues: to uncover who had sent the advanced glass formulas—and, if possible, to sow even greater dissent among their rivals.
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Mors gazed out over Bloodstone's shores, circling once more before finally speaking.
"Hmm. I think that's it. Bedwyck is settled in. We've been gone too long… it's time we returned—home."
Ashara's smile brightened at the word. "Home… yes. Let's return home." She slipped her arm through his and leaned close.
Mors turned to Qerrin, standing guard just behind him. "Tell Daven to set sail for Sunfort. We return with haste."
After a pause, Ashara murmured, "By the time we arrive, we should hear news of Mellario. She must be due by now."
Mors sighed, though his expression softened with fondness. "I truly think you should have gone back to Sunspear to be with her. I know how much you've been worrying."
She huffed lightly. "And as I said before—you're not leaving me behind. We'll meet your nephew or niece together when we return."
Mors's lips curved. "Remind me… what was it you were doing back in Sunspear? Elia's lady-in-waiting, wasn't it?" His smirk gave him away.
Ashara turned her head, feigning offense, a faint flush rising. "Don't play dumb, 'Sunny'. You know why I went to Sunspear… the same reason I'm here with you." Her voice dropped to a softer note.
Mors laughed, drawing her against him. "All right, all right. I'm only teasing. Even I'm not that much of a blockhead."
Ashara shot him a triumphant look. "Good. Keep that up, and when we're married next year, I might even let you win a spar once in a while—so you don't grow too discouraged."
His lips twitched. "Erm, yes, that… as long as you don't kick my shin, we're perfectly fine."
Her face lit brighter from embarrassment at that, and Mors couldn't help but laugh joyfully at her reaction.
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Sunspear, One Week Later
Mors, Doran, Ashara, Mellario, Elia, Loreza, Alyssa, and Jeremy looked on as a wetnurse fed the newborn Princess Arriane Martell. He wished he could say she looked like some radiant Persian princess from a tale, but the truth was far less flattering.
'She looks like a piece of meat… a breastfeeding piece of meat. Yeah, I probably shouldn't say that out loud.'
His eyes flicked toward Ashara, Mellario, and Elia as they fussed over the infant, then happened to meet Doran's gaze. His older brother's lips twitched, as though he knew exactly what Mors was thinking. Mors gave him a nervous smile and quickly turned back to the baby.
He still couldn't quite believe what Doran had told him earlier. 'Mother has been in talks to finalize a betrothal between Elia and Baelor—Break…' He stopped himself mid-thought. 'Breakwind. Gods, I really need to stop calling him that if they're actually going to marry. Right, right… Lord Baelor Hightower. Respectable. Serious. Not a walking joke.'
He exhaled, shaking his head faintly. 'And Elia, despite having her heart set on Rhaegar, seems to be accepting of this match. Hopefully it works out—it's for the better.' Relief washed through him; at last, one of his greatest goals was accomplished.
Still, his mouth twitched. 'It seems Doran took my warning seriously and managed to sway her. Maybe her failing health made her loosen her grip on those royal aspirations.'
As he stared at the infant, a darker thought pressed in. 'I don't remember this name from the show. Arriane Martell… and Willas Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell—he was born earlier this year too. And "Asha" Greyjoy? Who even is that? She could be Yara's sister… but is that really the case? No. It doesn't line up… I've been avoiding this, but the truth is clear.'
He swallowed hard. 'This isn't the show. This world's different.'
He forced a smiled at the tender scene before him, though it felt thin, a bit fragile.
'And that means my plans might not be enough…'
For a moment, the weight of every choice pressed on him. But then Ashara glanced his way and offered a bright smile. He couldn't help but return it, and in an instant her laughter followed—joined, to his surprise, by even the stoic Alyssa and Loreza.
'It doesn't matter. This is the real world. I'll keep fortifying the Stepstones, securing every channel and outpost until no ship dares breathe without our leave. I'll strengthen Dorne—ships, soldiers, supply lines, all of it—and I'll broaden the spy network, from Myr to King's Landing, so nothing moves in Westeros or Essos without my knowing. When the storm finally breaks, we won't be caught unprepared. We will be ready.'
As the thought crystallized, Mors felt something within him shift—as though a weight had fallen away and a beast had been unchained. The air itself seemed to change. Those around him turned, startled, as if sensing the surge of conviction radiating from him.
Mors only smiled, calm and certain. He gave a small, silent nod, then returned to enjoying the moment with his family.
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After baby Arianne was laid to rest, the group split off. Elia, Ashara, Mellario, and Alyssa drifted to the courtyard to share tea. Jeremy and Loreza retired to her solar for wine. Mors and Doran, however, took to the patio for a quieter conversation, in the hallway they passed an elderly servant struggling to polish the floor beneath a painting of a shadowed-black sun hanging in the night sky.
'Hmm, ominous' Mors thought as his gaze lingered on the image.
Leaning on the rail, staring out into the night sky with a cup of wine in hand, Doran began without preamble.
"It was House Yronwood… and House Wyl."
Mors glanced at him, confused, until the truth struck. His eyes widened.
"You mean the traitors. You managed to make the captive talk." His tone left no room for doubt.
Doran gave a grave nod. "Their families were being held hostage. Fear pried their lips open. Not that it mattered—by the time we knew, they were likely already dead. Regardless… everyone talks, eventually."
Mors said nothing. He didn't like the cold certainty in Doran's words, but he understood it.
"What's the plan, then? What are we doing next?"
Doran chuckled softly, though his eyes remained hard. "We will handle it as the Dornish—as House Martell—has always handled backstabbers and traitors: with utter ruthlessness. You, on the other hand, are Prince of the Stepstones now. This has nothing to do with you."
Mors's jaw tightened, about to argue, but Doran raised a hand to stop him.
"Mors, you will always be Nymeros-Martell. But you also bear a charge from the King. If we allow another region—even one under your command—to be drawn into our internal strife, it weakens Dorne's sovereignty. Leave this to us. The noose is already tightening around Yronwood and Wyl, and they don't even feel it yet. Uncle Lewyn and Manfrey are already at work."
He offered a small smile, patted Mors on the shoulder, and walked away, leaving him alone with his wine and thoughts.
'He's right,' Mors admitted to himself. 'I already made my choice. My conviction is to strengthen us, to prepare before the storm comes. I'll stick to that.'
He sighed, nursing his drink as his gaze drifted back to the stars.
There was a soft rustling—so faint only he could have noticed it. Mors didn't turn. 'Hm. Did Doran return?'
That was when he heard it—rasped just behind him, low and certain:
"Valar Morghulis."
Something cold and impossibly sharp punched into his back. Pain seared through him, hot and sudden, the kind of agony no ordinary blade should bring. His breath caught, the world narrowing to the taste of iron in his mouth.
The cup slipped from his hand.
Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision.
And then the world seemed to stop.