…
"Goodbrother!" a voice called from outside—Allyria's, urgent and alarmed.
Mors and Ashara exchanged a worried glance, immediately pulling apart as he opened the pavilion flap.
"Ria, what's the matter? Did something happen?" Mors asked, stepping toward her.
"Mors—have you seen Lyanna?" Allyria blurted, her eyes wide with panic.
"What?" Mors frowned, confused.
"Benjen's outside—Lyanna's missing!" Allyria explained hurriedly.
Mors's eyes widened, and Ashara gasped. Alyssa's expression hardened, while Malora stepped forward and wrapped Allyria in a quick hug, trying to calm her trembling hands.
Without another word, Mors turned and rushed outside.
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Mors rushed out with heavy steps, the borrowed guard's armor still strapped over his simple clothes. The metal creaked softly as he emerged into the cool night air and spotted Benjen Stark standing awkwardly, flanked by two Stark guards.
When Benjen saw him, he gave a quick bow. "King Mors."
Mors managed a faint smile but pressed on, his tone clipped with urgency. "None of that, Benjen. Tell me—what's going on?"
Behind him, Allyria followed, with Ashara, Malora, and Alyssa close behind.
Benjen's jaw worked nervously. "Aye, it's like this. After the tourney ended, we all started heading our own ways to get ready for the feast. But when the fire started—in the chaos—I don't know what happened. It was only much later we realized we couldn't find Lyanna. She was nowhere. Gods, if I'd just stayed with her—this is my fault!"
His voice cracked on the last words, guilt clear in his eyes.
Mors exhaled slowly. "None of that, Benjen. We focus on finding her. Blame can wait—that's one thing Westeros never runs out of." He rubbed his temples, the weight of fatigue pressing in.
'I'm too tired for this…' he thought grimly.
He turned to Allyria. "Ria, wasn't Lyanna with you at the end of the tourney? I remember her teasing you about being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty."
Allyria's cheeks flushed briefly before she steadied herself. "Ah, yes—we were together. But she said she had to go get ready. That was just before we left for the feast."
"Did she leave alone?" Mors asked.
Allyria frowned, thinking hard. "I… I'm not sure. I can't remember."
Mors turned to Ser Arthur Dayne, standing sentinel nearby. "Arthur, do you recall anything? Anything that stood out?"
Arthur furrowed his brows. "Apologies, Your Grace. My focus was on Lady Ashara and Lady Allyria's safety. I didn't pay much attention to Princess Lyanna."
Mors sighed. Then, turning back to Benjen: "What about her guards? I thought Brandon doubled your protection for the tourney."
Benjen's shoulders slumped. "They… lost her."
Silence hung for a moment as Mors absorbed that.
Then he looked to Ashara. "My moon—have our men search every inch of the Dornish section. Leave no stone unturned."
Ashara nodded resolutely and strode off to issue orders, Alyssa close behind to assist her, while Malora stayed behind, still holding Allyria to calm her worry.
Mors faced Benjen again. "Let's go. We'll meet with Brandon first—see if he's learned anything. When I last saw him, everything seemed fine, so he likely didn't know yet. After that, we'll search the Northern encampment—perhaps I can spot something Brandon's men missed."
Benjen nodded, relief flickering across his face.
Behind them, Barristan, Arthur, Garth, Jorran, Cale, and Daro—his Kingsguard—stepped forward, ready to follow.
"No, hold," Mors said firmly, raising a hand. "I know you're worried, but my family needs protection—especially now. This could still be part of the same trap."
He looked to each man in turn. "Barristan, you're still injured—stay and guard my family. Arthur, Garth—you'll come with me and bring your regiments. Also, don't forget Solaris."
Then to the rest: "Stay alert. If they couldn't reach me, they might go after those I love instead."
They knelt briefly. "By your will."
Mors nodded once, turning to Benjen. "Let's move."
Benjen fell in beside him as they strode into the night that would seemingly not end anytime soon.
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As they approached the Northern encampment, a booming, slightly slurred, voice shattered the night.
"Lyanna! Where is my Lyanna? I don't care what you have to do—tear down every tent, turn over every carriage, search every dress! My queen must be found, NOW!"
King Robert Baratheon's roar echoed through the camp as his men scrambled in every direction.
Beside him stood King Brandon Stark, Prince Stannis Baratheon, Prince Hoster Tully, Prince Brynden Tully, and another man—slightly short, slender, with a missing left ear and a scar running from where it should have been down to his chin. He stood familiarly close to Queen Catelyn Tully and Princess Lysa Tully.
"Mors! Benjen!" Brandon spotted them first and strode forward. "Thank you for coming Mors. Benjy. Nothing?" he asked, voice strained.
Benjen shook his head, guilt etched deep across his face.
Mors exhaled. "Unfortunately, nothing. My men are searching our encampment, but this feels too coordinated—too suspicious after everything that's already happened tonight. We don't have enough information yet, but whether this is a continuation of the assassination attempt or something entirely different… I don't like where this leads."
Brandon nodded grimly, while Benjen's shoulders slumped further under the weight of guilt.
Robert's voice cut through the air again. "Brandon, let me at those guards who lost her! I'll make them talk—there's no way they weren't part of this!"
Brandon sighed. "They're from the North. We'll handle it. If they know anything, we'll get it from them soon enough."
But Robert wasn't listening—his eyes were locked on Mors. The look he gave him was pure fury.
Finally, he pointed straight at him. "You! This has to be your fault! There's no doubt about it! I've already heard what happened today—someone tried to kill you, and now Lyanna's gone missing right after? You bastard!"
Mors stared at him blankly, rubbed his face, and muttered low enough for only Brandon to hear, "I really am far too tired for this right now."
At once, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Garth Hightower stepped in front of Mors protectively. Robert's guards mirrored the move, forming up around their king. The air grew tense—one spark away from bloodshed.
"Robert, enough!" Brandon barked. "We have more important things to—"
"Nothing is more important than my Lyanna!" Robert roared, cutting him off. "It must have been him! He's involved, I know it!"
"Robert, now is not the time for this—" Brandon tried again.
"And you!" Robert turned on him next. "This is as much your fault! You should've had an army watching her—her every move, her every breath guarded! But instead, you waste your time bowing to this Sand Dragon!"
The outburst left the entire camp silent. Even Robert seemed to realize he'd gone too far. His chest heaved; his face was red, and he turned away with a sharp grunt.
Brandon's eyes, however, were cold and thoughtful. His jaw tightened.
"Brandon…" Mors called quietly. No response.
"Brandon," he repeated, stepping closer.
The Stark king blinked out of his thoughts. "Aye?"
"I was calling to you," Mors said evenly. "Let me see Lyanna's tent. Maybe I'll notice something your men missed."
Brandon nodded. "Aye. We've already searched it, but another pair of eyes won't hurt."
As they walked, Mors glanced toward the others. "Queen Catelyn—unfortunate that we meet again under such grim circumstances. Prince Lysa, Prince Stannis, Prince Hoster, Prince Brynden… and you are?"
Lysa smiled brightly and took his arm. "This is our younger brother in all but blood. We practically grew up together!" she said warmly. Even Catelyn smiled at the memory.
Catelyn added, "Yes, this is Petyr Baelish. We've been friends since childhood, though we were separated after my marriage. He now serves as my father's treasurer—and as part of King Robert's Small Council."
Mors's eyes widened slightly as recognition dawned. His gaze flicked to Petyr's missing ear and scar.
Petyr caught the look and smiled wryly. "Your Grace, you're likely wondering about this little wound, aren't you? The price of youthful arrogance. I thought I could stop the Smiling Knight's wickedness during the siege of Riverrun."
Lysa nodded eagerly. "That's right! He's a hero in his own right!"
Brandon sighed. "Aye… unfortunate that—never mind. Come, let's check Lyanna's tent."
Mors nodded but cast one last glance at Petyr before following.
'I remember this one… didn't he betray Ned in the series?' he thought grimly. 'But there's something off about him—he feels like a rat.'
He let his gaze linger for a heartbeat.
'Lust for Catelyn. Hatred for Brandon. And that smugness… pride? Over what—surviving that fight? Or something darker? Wretched. I'll need to warn Brandon later.'
Petyr Baelish caught Mors's lingering stare and gave a faint bow, a knowing smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
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Right before entering Lyanna's tent, Mors turned to Brandon, his tone serious.
"Brandon, be careful with Petyr Baelish. The emotions I sensed from him were… wrong. There's hatred toward you—and what he feels for Queen Catelyn is far from brotherly."
Brandon frowned, taking in the warning. "Aye, I've always known he carried feelings for her, but even now, I've never thought much of him. He's just a minor lord."
Mors shook his head slightly. "Don't underestimate him. He's not as simple as he seems."
Brandon met his gaze and nodded firmly. "If you say it, I'll take it seriously."
With that, the two men stepped into Lyanna's tent, eyes sweeping every corner in silence.
Brandon shook his head. "See? Nothing. We've searched it all, but there's no sign of anything out of place…"
Mors nodded and turned to leave—but then stopped.
"I never took Lyanna for the orderly type," he said, half to himself.
Brandon blinked, then let out a short laugh. "What? Orderly? Ha!"
He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Seven hells, you're right. Lyanna and order don't belong in the same sentence."
The laughter faded, replaced by a frown as realization crept in. His eyes widened.
"Wait…" He looked around again, scanning the tent. "Everything is too orderly."
Mors leaned against the entrance post, watching him.
Brandon turned in a slow circle, studying the room anew before walking back. "This doesn't make sense. It's all… too neat."
"Was anything missing?" Mors asked thoughtfully.
Brandon hesitated. "That—I'm not sure. I'll need to ask her servants."
Mors crossed his arms in thought. "So… are things organized because she was taken—or because she meant to leave?"
They fell silent for a long moment before stepping out of the tent.
Waiting outside was Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing at attention despite the late hour. He stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Graces—King Brandon, King Mors."
"Anything to report, Ser Rodrik?" Brandon asked, his voice weary.
"We've searched the entire encampment," Rodrik replied. "We did find something odd in the stables—six horses are missing. Their tracks lead out in several directions, but the trail was lost in the mud, mixed with all the other hoofprints and cart ruts from the chaos earlier. Also… three of the guards, including young Walder, are missing as well."
Brandon's eyes widened. "Six horses—and three guards including Walder?" He rubbed his brow, thinking hard.
Mors frowned slightly. "Walder… the robust squire in training? The big boy of fourteen?"
Rodrik nodded. "Aye, Your Grace. You've met him, then? Big lad he is."
Mors nodded. "Briefly." He glanced at Brandon, whose expression had hardened.
"Send out search parties," Brandon ordered. "All directions—make sure each is properly manned. There's no telling what they might run into."
"Aye, Your Grace," Rodrik said with a firm salute before hurrying off.
Brandon turned to Mors. "Come. Let's see if anyone else has found something."
Mors said thoughtfully, "Perhaps we should question her guards again."
Brandon paused, considering it. "Aye… you're right. And perchance you might notice something we did not again. Come—let's go."
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They arrived at a tent heavily guarded by northern men. Brandon gave a brief nod to the sentries and stepped inside, Mors following close behind.
Within, eight hardy guards sat shackled by chains at their right ankles. The air was heavy with gloom and shame. As soon as Brandon entered, the men scrambled to their feet and dropped to one knee.
"The King in the North!" they chorused.
Brandon sighed. "Stand. I've brought King Mors to question you again. All I ask is that you answer truthfully—once more."
Mors nodded. "Tell me, did anything unusual happen today while guarding Princess Lyanna?"
The captain of the group cleared his throat, speaking in a tired voice. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Your Graces… Princess Lyanna rose early to train with Lady Allyria Dayne. Later she and Lady Allyria met with Lady Lynesse Hightower—they spent much of the day eating from the stalls, playing pranks on the men, same as always. She was with Lady Lynesse and Lady Allyria at the tourney most of the afternoon. Oh, and she and Lady Allyria fought two Stormlander knights between matches—those same fools who tried to pick a fight with Howland Reed two days past."
'This was nothing out of the ordinary?' Mors thought dryly. 'And Allyria seems to have been involved in half the day's chaos. I'll need someone to start keeping an eye on what that goodsister of mine gets up to.'
A faint throb pulsed at his temple.
"Oh! Captain—tell him about her quarrel with King Robert," one of the guards added.
Brandon's head turned sharply. "A quarrel with Robert? That wasn't mentioned before."
The captain winced. "Aye, well… it happens near every day, Your Grace."
Brandon sighed, exasperated but unsurprised.
"King Robert came to find her again," the captain continued. "He'd been drinking more than usual. We couldn't hear everything, but he tried to touch the princess's hair—and she pushed him off. Told him to keep playing with his tavern girls, then left. Ladies Allyria and Lynesse followed her."
Mors and Brandon exchanged a look before Mors turned back to the men.
"Is that all?" he asked evenly.
The guards glanced at one another uncertainly.
"Well… Princess Lyanna did give us some ale," the captain offered at last. "But that's about it."
Mors's brow furrowed. "She gave you ale? When was this?"
"While the tourney was still underway," the man replied, thinking hard.
"Does she do that often?" Mors pressed.
"Not often, no," the captain admitted. "But she has done it before."
Mors nodded slowly, then turned to Brandon and gave a small shake of his head.
Brandon exhaled, weary. "Thank you, men. Hopefully this will all be over soon and you can be released."
The captain shook his head fiercely. "No, Your Grace. We failed our duty. We deserve punishment."
Brandon's face softened, but he said nothing. With that, he and Mors stepped outside.
Once clear of the tent, Brandon looked at him. "Did anything stand out to you?"
Mors rubbed his jaw, thinking. "Yes and no. I'm not sure what counts as normal for her—but it seems Ria and she have been… busy."
Despite the tension, Brandon let out a short, dry laugh. "Aye. That sounds like her." His smile faded as quickly as it came. "Old gods willing, she's safe. Let's see if anyone's found anything else."
They had only just begun to walk when a group of northern guards came sprinting toward them, breathless and alarmed.
"Your Graces!" one shouted. "King Robert's started a skirmish with the Dornishmen—he's demanding King Mors's head!"
Mors and Brandon both froze, their expressions darkening. Their eyes met for the briefest instant—then they broke into motion, striding out at once.
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As they approached the common grounds, Mors and Brandon could already feel the tension thick in the air.
On one side stood King Robert Baratheon, fully armored, warhammer in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. Prince Stannis stood beside him, arguing heatedly, his jaw set and one eye already bruised.
Opposite them, the Dornishmen were armed and ready. Prince Oberyn and Prince Manfrey stood at their head, Oberyn's cruel smile unmistakable as he idly spun his spear. Between both sides stood the Northerners—tense, trying to keep the peace.
Nearby, King Denys Arryn, King Jaime Lannister, and King Mace Tyrell observed with deep frowns.
As soon as Mors and Brandon appeared, Hoster, Brynden, Catelyn, and Lysa hurried to meet them.
"Brandon," Catelyn said anxiously, "Robert is accusing Mors of kidnapping Lyanna—and killing Northern men! They found Dornish and Northern corpses, and one of her hairbands on the ground!"
Robert's voice thundered across the field.
"There he is! You bastard! I'll kill you! Bring back Lyanna, you Targaryen worm—or I'll crush you and every Dornish bastard with you!"
"Robert—" Stannis tried through gritted teeth, his voice strained. "Let's understand what happened first. This could all be a setup."
"Setup?!" Robert barked. "Setup my royal stag ass! It's him! We've got proof! What are you all waiting for—let's put this snake down!"
Hoster sighed, stepping forward to clarify. "Kings Brandon, Mors—King Mace's men found two Northern corpses and one Dornish, not far from the stables. They also recovered a hairband they believe belonged to Princess Lyanna. Robert swears he's seen her wear it."
Mors frowned deeply, exchanging a look with Brandon.
"It seems someone's trying to frame me," he said calmly, though his eyes burned with quiet fury. "How quaint."
"Goodfather," Brandon said, "may I see the hairband?"
A servant brought it forth. Brandon took it—red silk, slightly dirtied.
He turned to Catelyn. "Is this the one she wore today?"
Before she could answer, Robert interjected. "No—it was blue today. Matched her beautiful gray eyes perfectly…"
Mors raised an eyebrow, half impressed, half concerned. 'That's not love anymore. That's obsession.'
Catelyn blinked, hesitant. "…That's correct. She wore blue."
Robert's rage surged again. "Bring her back! Bring back my Lyanna!"
Mors met his gaze coldly. "Robert, I'm very tired. My patience for stupidity is thin. If you insist on shouting instead of helping, I might stop holding back."
The air shifted. For an instant, it felt as if a dragon had fixed its eyes on the Storm King.
Robert faltered—sobered by something primal in Mors's stare.
At that moment, Jaime Lannister stepped forward. "As much as I'd love to see Robert flattened, I should say this—we searched the Rock's encampment. Found nothing. Since this looks far from over, I'll take my leave. If you need us, send word—but we depart tomorrow afternoon."
Jaime turned and left without waiting for a reply.
Then Denys Arryn approached, with Mace Tyrell close behind.
"My apologies for not arriving sooner," Denys said gravely. "I ordered my men to search our grounds immediately, but found no trace. Who could be behind this?"
"Dreadful, dreadful!" Mace blustered. "To think someone would kidnap a princess under our very noses! Hmph! Unfortunate it didn't happen near me—I'd have captured the villains myself before it ever got this far." He sighed dramatically.
"On to other matters… I've already had my men clean the area where those brave souls fell—No need to thank me!"
Mors blinked once. "…You cleaned the scene?"
Mace puffed his chest proudly. "Of course! Cleared it, raked it and even had the grass re-laid where it was trampled!"
Mors stared at him in silence, then looked skyward.
'By the Seven, by the Old Gods, by any god listening… give me patience.'
Brandon hesitated, placing a hand on his shoulder in sympathy.
'Wait—why is Brandon comforting me? It's his sister who's missing,' Mors thought, perplexed.
Mace glanced between them, scratching his head in confusion, while the others looked on in disbelief.
Mors exhaled slowly. The first light of dawn was starting to break on the horizon. He gave Brandon a tired smile. "We'll find her. Don't worry."
"Stop ignoring me, damn it!" Robert bellowed, his fury reigniting. "I challenge you to a duel, you sand freak! I'll make you confess!"
Mors frowned. "Noisy. Too noisy… Fine. Let's quiet this stag so the adults can think."
He handed Solaris to Arthur Dayne and stepped forward.
"What are you doing?!" Robert snarled. "You dare face me barehanded? You arrogant bastard!"
"No arrogance," Mors replied evenly. "I just know what you can do."
"Ours is the Fury!" Robert roared, swinging his hammer in a deadly arc toward Mors's chest.
Mors leaned back, the hammer grazing air. With his right hand, he slapped Robert's wrist, redirecting the swing wide, then drove a sharp jab into the open space at Robert's hip. The blow landed clean, knocking the wind out of him.
Mors shifted, swept his leg behind Robert's knees, and sent the Storm King crashing forward to the ground.
"Ahhh—damn it!" Robert groaned.
Mors stepped forward and calmly stomped on his back.
"You bastard! Fight me like a man!" Robert howled.
"Robert," Mors said coolly, "you're drunk. Go to sleep."
Then, with precise control, he delivered a quick kick beneath Robert's jaw. The king went limp.
The Stormlands guards tensed, uncertain if their king still lived.
Across from them, the Dornishmen readied weapons—but Oberyn only laughed, his voice cutting through the tension. "Hah! Well done, brother! Though next time, make him suffer a bit longer!"
Mors turned to Stannis. "He's alive. Have a maester tend to him. He'll wake with a headache—and, with luck, a lesson, though I wouldn't count on it."
At that moment, Ser Rodrik Cassel arrived, riding hard with several men behind him. He dismounted quickly and knelt before Brandon.
"My king, urgent news!"
Brandon's tone sharpened. "Go on."
"We found three cloaked corpses about an hour southeast of here. They've been dead for some time."
Brandon let out a long breath. "Good. A lead at last. Prepare a pursuit."
"I'll join you," Mors said immediately, ignoring his fatigue. "I won't rest easy otherwise."
Before they could move, Lord Leyton Hightower arrived with a nervous Lady Lynesse beside him.
"Your Graces," Leyton said, "before you depart—my daughter has something to share."
Brandon and Mors turned toward them. Denys, Mace, Hoster, and Stannis gathered as well.
Leyton gave Mace a wary glance, maybe worried he'd make things worse, but said nothing, then looked back to his daughter with a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Go on, my dear. Don't be afraid."
Lynesse hesitated, her hands trembling. "I… I believe Princess Lyanna left of her own will."
"What?!" Brandon exclaimed, then caught himself. "Forgive me, my lady. Please—go on."
"She was angry earlier," Lynesse continued, voice small. "Disgusted with King Robert. Once, she told me she didn't want to marry him—that if she was to be caged by a man like that, she'd rather steal a bit of freedom first. I didn't think much of it at the time… but after the tourney ended, I saw her slip away. I didn't realize what it meant until now."
Silence followed.
'Wait… did she run away?' Mors thought, piecing it together.
He spoke at last, calm but thoughtful. "There are still unknowns—but it fits. The clean tent, the missing horses, the misplaced hairband. Someone did plan to abduct her, then pin it on me—perhaps to spark unrest among the kings—but they never imagined she'd leave first."
Brandon's eyes hardened. "Then we must find her—before whoever was behind this does."
"Agreed," Mors said. "Let's gather an elite group of men. We leave as soon as we're ready."
King Denys stepped forward. "I'll send a squad to aid you."
"I'll—ah—I'll send two," Mace blurted, puffing up slightly.
Stannis, who had remained behind after seeing Robert carried off to rest, added in a steady, reverent tone, "As expected of His Grace, King Mors—truly blessed by the Seven. Without Robert's consent, I can't intervene directly, but I'll inform you if we uncover anything."
Brandon inclined his head, offering a small smile of gratitude. "That works. And thank you, Stannis. I understand your position."
Mors nodded. "Before we depart, I'll also check whether my men learned anything from the captured ambushers—"
"Brother," Oberyn's voice cut in from behind, smooth but grim, "that's why I came. Those men are dead."
Mors turned, his brow furrowing. "Dead? Were they that fragile?"
Oberyn shook his head. "No. They bit their own tongues off."
A flicker of realization crossed Mors's face. "Professionals, then. Just like the 'pirates' we dealt with before." His expression darkened. "From the Free Cities, most likely."
Oberyn nodded. "That's my thought as well."
Brandon frowned, deep in thought. "From the Free Cities? Why would they come after Lyanna?"
Mors gave a small shake of his head, wordlessly admitting he didn't know either. He exhaled slowly, then turned back to Lynesse, his tone softening. "Thank you, my lady. Go find Allyria—and if either of you recall anything else, send word."
He rested a hand on her head, gently ruffling her hair.
Lynesse pouted faintly, her cheeks coloring. "…I'm not a child," she muttered.
Mors almost tripped but didn't turn back, only shaking his head as he walked away.
"Children grow up far too quickly here," he murmured under his breath.