…
"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."
Mors exhaled slowly, then turned back to Lynesse, softening his tone. "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.
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Mors arrived at the Martell pavilion. The air was tense; guards moved briskly, and security was tighter than usual. The attempt on his life had left everyone on edge. No one was taking chances.
Ser Barristan Selmy had taken personal command of security, ensuring no one passed unchecked and that the Martell children remained under constant watch.
Outside, Maron Sand and young Prince Daeron Martell were running spear drills under Ser Daro's supervision. Barristan occasionally offered pointers between patrols. Little Daeron looked adorable, but his thrusts carried surprising bite for a boy of four—nearly five.
As Mors entered the yard, flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Garth Hightower, the knights—Daro, Barristan, and Jorran—straightened and bowed.
"Your Grace!"
"At ease," Mors said with a brief smile. "Continue as you were."
He glanced at Daeron, amused, before asking, "Where's Ashara and the rest?"
Barristan stepped forward, a slight limp in his stride. "Your Grace, they should be with the little ones. Queen Ashara and Ladies Malora and Alyssa were coordinating the search for Princess Lyanna Stark. They returned recently to see that the children were settled."
Mors nodded. "Daeron's never been this eager to train before. I'm surprised to see him practicing alongside Maron."
Barristan smiled faintly. "He noticed the unease in the air—saw his mothers anxious, the guards tense. Little Maron grew restless, and Ser Daro offered to drill with him to ease his nerves. Prince Daeron joined on his own. He's… rather gifted, actually."
"That he is," Mors said, watching his son with quiet pride. "Still, make sure there aren't too many eyes when he trains. For now, double the guard around the children. We'll review our entire guard and intelligence structure once we return home."
"By your will, Your Grace." Barristan bowed.
Mors started to turn away, then paused and placed a hand on Barristan's shoulder.
"Barristan… thank you. For your counsel, your protection—and for believing in me enough to leave everything behind."
Barristan's eyes widened slightly before softening. He swallowed hard and bowed his head.
"It has been my greatest honor, Your Grace. The best decision I've ever made."
Mors looked around at the others. "The same goes for all of you. Arthur—brother, I'm glad you're here. Garth—your faith in me means more than you know. Daro, Jorran, and for Cale, Vaeron, and Qerrin who aren't here—thank you. You've all stood with me when it mattered."
He gave them each a nod, then moved toward the pavilion.
As he walked away, Arthur's voice drifted behind him in a low murmur.
"Well, it's not like I had a choice. Ashara threatened to cut my—"
Mors didn't hear the rest, shaking his head as he walked but smiling nonetheless.
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He approached the children's tent where Ser Vaeron and Ser Cale stood guard. Just as he reached the flap, the women emerged.
Malora spotted him first and immediately shouted, "Mo—!"
Alyssa swiftly clamped a hand over her mouth.
"They're sleeping," she whispered sharply. "Do you want to wake them again?"
Malora pouted. "What's the big deal? We could have the servants watch them for us."
Then she brightened instantly. "Morsy! You're back!" she whispered loudly before hugging him.
Ashara and Alyssa joined her, both embracing him in turn. The tension in his shoulders eased for a moment.
"Was Lyanna found?" Ashara asked quietly, the question cutting through the brief warmth.
Malora and Alyssa both looked up anxiously.
Mors exhaled, his expression darkening. "It's more complicated than we hoped. We have a lead on her direction, but…" He hesitated, then sighed. "It seems she left of her own will."
A soft gasp drew his attention. Allyria stood a few paces away, hand over her mouth.
"She… just left? Ran away?" she asked, stunned.
Mors's silence was answer enough.
Ser Vaeron and Ser Cale exchanged a look. "We'll check the outer hall," Cale said quietly.
Vaeron nodded. "Right. Almost time for the next rotation anyway."
They bowed and left discreetly.
Mors nodded at them, then turned back to the women. Four pairs of eyes waited on him.
He rubbed his brow. "As I said, it's complicated. Thankfully, it seems she left before real trouble reached her."
"As if making everyone worry wasn't trouble enough," Allyria muttered.
Ashara's brow furrowed slightly. "Before trouble reached her?" she asked, voice thoughtful.
The women's eyes widened as they caught the meaning in his words.
Mors continued evenly. "It appears someone intended to kidnap her. We found bodies—Northern and Dornish both—staged to look like they killed each other. The implication was meant to frame Dorne."
Ashara's eyes widened. "Gods…"
"But she escaped before they could act," Mors said firmly. "Still, she may not be safe. Brandon's already organizing a search. I'll join him."
"You're using yourself as bait," Alyssa said softly.
Mors smiled faintly. "Precisely. It's the quickest way to draw whoever's behind this into the open."
"I'm coming with you," Allyria declared instantly.
Mors shook his head. "Not this time, Ria. It'll be dangerous enough without me worrying about you too."
She pouted, muttering, "But I'm strong though."
Ashara hid a smile, brushing Allyria's arm gently.
"My Sun," Ashara said, voice low and concerned. "Are you sure you're ready? You've spent so much of your strength already. Usually, it takes days for you to recover."
"I'm tired," Mors admitted. "But we don't have time to waste."
He kissed each of them in turn—Ashara, Malora, Alyssa—and then looked to Allyria. "Lady of the Queensguard," he said in mock seriousness, "see to it my queens are kept safe."
Allyria straightened, salute sharp. "Yes, Your Grace! This knight will guard them with her life!"
Mors chuckled and stepped out into the sunlight.
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Outside, Oberyn, Manfrey, Arthur, Garth, Jorran, and Daro were already mounted with ten riders waiting. A horse stood ready for him.
Mors swung into the saddle. "All right. Arthur and Jorran ride with me—ten men only. The rest move separately. If I'm being watched, we'll use this to our advantage. Ser Daro, stay with Ser Barristan and assist Ser Vaeron and Ser Cale in guarding my family."
Ser Daro's expression fell, but he nodded firmly. "As you command, Your Grace."
He turned to Oberyn. "How many men are you taking?"
Oberyn grinned. "Twenty—not counting Manfrey, myself, and I suppose Garth now. They've already ridden ahead. We'll regroup at the trail. Just… try not to start any trouble without me."
Manfrey chuckled. "Be safe, brother."
Garth smirked. "Your Grace, wouldn't you feel safer taking me instead of Arthur? He only has that sword of his, after all."
Arthur gave him a cold smile. "Then perhaps you'd like a little spar when I return—live steel of course."
Garth ignored him completely, offering Mors a respectful nod. "Ride safely, Your Grace."
Mors smirked. "All right, enough talk. We've wasted time already. Let's move."
They were preparing to ride out when a group of Dornish guards appeared, escorting a breathless Ser Baelor Hightower.
"King Mors!" Baelor called, face pale.
Mors's brows knit. A bad feeling settled in his gut.
He dismounted quickly. "Baelor—what's happened?"
Baelor caught his breath. "The Ironborn, Mors! They've launched a full-scale reave of the North. We don't yet know the numbers, but according to the raven, it's more than they've ever fielded before—ships and men alike."
Mors's expression darkened. As if the situation wasn't complicated enough.
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Mors strode into the northern encampment.
The air was thick with unease—men hurried to pack their gear, smiths worked through the morning hammering out dents in armor, and every voice carried a note of restrained urgency.
The scent of steel, mud, and fear hung heavy.
Those from the western shores of the North looked the most anxious. For them, the Ironborn were not an abstract threat—they were coming for their homes.
At the center of camp rose the Stark pavilion, the direwolf banner snapping in the wind. Mors was admitted without delay. Inside, Brandon Stark stood surrounded by a ring of northern lords—Lord Gregor Forrester; Lord Jorah Mormont and his aunt, Lady Maege Mormont; Lord Howland Reed; and Lord Jon Umber, the Greatjon, with his son Jon Umber—"Smalljon," though there was nothing small about him. Yet among them stood a surprising addition—Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself.
"We've been waiting for a chance to crush them!" Greatjon Umber boomed, eyes alight. "I'll bring every man I have and show them what reaving truly means!"
"Yes, Lord Umber, there'll be plenty of crushing, I'm sure," Brynden replied, mildly exasperated. "But more importantly, we need to think about how to get you all home—safely and quickly. The sea's out of the question."
'Are all northern lords this large?' Mors thought briefly, before his eyes settled on Howland Reed and he smirked to himself. 'Almost all.'
"Aye, best we avoid the sea, considering—" Brandon began solemnly, then stopped as his eyes caught movement near the entrance. "Mors!"
"Brandon. Lords. Prince Brynden." Mors inclined his head in greeting. "I came as soon as I heard."
The lords dipped their heads in return.
Brandon's jaw was set tight, his fist clenched, seeming to let go of his pent-up frustration.
"Those damned Ironborn! They never learn. They've launched a full-scale reaving of the North. According to Ned's raven, they mean to take it this time—every port, every coast." His voice dropped to a growl. "If that's what they want, we'll drown them in their own saltwater."
"Have you called the allies?" Mors asked.
"Aye, I've sent word," Brandon said, rubbing his temple. "But this will be difficult. The only realms with enough ships to match them are you—and the Reach. We've got some at White Harbor, but not nearly enough."
Mors nodded. "I believe Stannis has been building a fleet as well, though I don't know how large. We'll need every hull we can muster." He paused, his tone softening. "And… Lyanna?"
Brandon sighed, the fire in him dimming for a moment. "No news. I've sent riders, but we can't spare many. War comes first. I can't chase her every time she runs off—gods forgive me, but her recklessness might cost us more than patience."
He fixed Mors with a tired stare. "Tell me truthfully—have we been too lenient with her? Or is Robert truly so poor a match? If anything happens to her… I don't know how I'll face Mother and Father when my time comes."
Mors gave a small, wry chuckle. "Brandon—Lyanna's a woman grown by now. But that's a question for another day. Let's get her back first." He straightened, his tone firming. "I've already sent a raven to Sunspear; our fleets will be ready to move. In the meantime, I'll go after Lyanna myself. We don't yet know what dangers are chasing her—or what trouble she's stumbled into—but we need to reach her quickly."
Brandon frowned. "Brother, I appreciate it, but you don't have to do that."
"I do," Mors said firmly. He leaned closer, voice lowering. "It's not just about Lyanna. If there are people still hiding—plotting—I mean to flush them out while they think I'm distracted."
Brandon's eyes widened. "Truly?" He nodded after a moment. "Very well. I'll tell Rodrik to give you whatever you need."
Mors clasped his arm. "Good. If anything changes, coordinate with Ser Barristan. He'll know where to find me."
Brandon exhaled, some of the weight leaving his shoulders. "Seven watch over you, Mors. And if you find my sister—bring that wolf home."
Mors's lips curved faintly. "I intend to."
"Wait—I'll go with you," Brynden Tully said suddenly.
Mors inclined his head. "Then it will be my pleasure to ride with you, Prince Brynden."
Brandon smiled. "Thank you, Good-uncle. The North will rest easier knowing you're both on the road."
Brynden sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "None of that 'prince' nonsense. Just call me Brynden—or Ser Brynden, if you must. That title I actually earned."
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Mors, Arthur, Jorran, Brynden and ten Dornish guards—accompanied by a northern guide—made a very public show of riding southeast on their loudly announced rescue mission. Mors's silver hair and violet eyes caught the sunlight, impossible to miss even from afar.
They had been riding for half an hour when Arthur, keeping pace beside him, called over the drum of hooves.
"So—do you think anyone will bite?" he asked curiously.
Mors shook his head wryly. "Your guess is as good as mine. But it's worth a try. I don't like having enemies hiding in the dark."
"Bite?" Brynden asked, glancing over with curiosity.
So Mors told him the plan.
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They reached the clearing where the three cloaked bodies had been found earlier that morning by Ser Rodrik Cassel. A northern guard rode with them as guide, visibly uneasy in the presence of kings and legends.
Mors dismounted, scanning the ground.
"Have many passed through here recently?" he asked, crouching to study the trampled earth.
"Erm—n-not many, m'lord—Your Grace!" the guard stammered, stiff as a spear.
Mors waved him off lightly. "Relax."
Mors heard the man mutter under his breath, "Right… relax, relax…"
He knelt, brushing a hand over the soil. "Some of the tracks are faint, but it looks like two horses stopped here. Then…" He pointed outward in four directions. "They were surrounded. A fight broke out."
He moved several paces away to a patch of disturbed earth. "Someone else came in here—rolled through the dirt with one of them. Judging by the spacing, he wasn't with the four that surrounded the others."
Arthur and Jorran exchanged a glance as Mors continued walking, tracing invisible lines through the ground. Brynden watched, visibly impressed.
"He jumped down from his horse—killed one clean. Meanwhile, the other two engaged the rest. Three fell—right about here." He pointed to the area where the bodies had been found.
Straightening with a sigh, Mors scanned the ground once more. "Everything else is too muddled to read… but I'd wager one of the assailants got away."
The northern guard stared at him, mouth open in disbelief.
Arthur's dry voice broke the silence. "Yes, we could barely tell anything at all."
Jorran coughed into his palm to stifle a laugh.
Brynden gave an approving nod.
Mors rolled his eyes. "Envy doesn't suit you, Arthur. But in all seriousness…" He looked back toward the tracks. "I'd wager two people are traveling with Lyanna—and one of them's that large squire, Walder."
Arthur raised a brow. "The same lad who defended Lyanna and Benjen during that scuffle the other day?"
The guard blinked. "Big Walder?"
"That's my guess," Mors said with a nod. "As for the other one… we'll learn more as we go."
He turned to the guard. "Thank you for your guidance. Ride back to King Brandon and tell him what I've found. We'll continue from here."
The guard bowed quickly. "As you say, Your Grace."
Mounting their horses again, the four men set off southeast across the Reach, following what they hoped was Lyanna's trail, with ten guards riding close behind.
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They had been riding for hours when Brynden, keeping pace beside him, suddenly spoke.
"King Mors—did you notice?"
Mors nodded. "We're being followed."
They rode on in silence for a few moments.
"How do you want to handle it?" Brynden asked quietly.
Mors pointed toward a low hill ahead. "We'll make camp up there. I'm sure everyone could use a rest."
Arthur, Jorran, and Brynden nodded.
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When the group dismounted, Mors spoke without turning toward the ridge behind them. His voice was calm but firm.
"Everyone act natural. Don't look back. We're being followed. I don't know who it is or how many, but they're close—and moving in our direction."
The men exchanged quick glances but nodded in silent understanding.
Mors continued, lowering his voice. "Arthur, Jorran—let's give them a surprise. If they come within the hour, we'll use this."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out three small glass flasks.
Jorran's eyes widened. "Your Grace… are those fire flasks?"
Mors nodded, a fierce glint in his eye. "They'll bring down a few and light the signal for our support."
Brynden's eyes narrowed in recognition.
Arthur turned to the men. "Ready your bows. If they charge, make every shot count."
Mors added, "And until then, act defenseless—like we haven't noticed a thing."
The men straightened and answered in unison, "By your will, Your Grace."
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An hour later, they began seeing dust on the horizon—and hearing the faint thunder of hooves.
Mors turned in his saddle. A large column of riders was cutting across the plain toward them, the glint of metal flashing beneath dark cloaks.
He drew his bow. Arthur, Jorran, and Brynden did the same, the rest of the men following suit.
"About fifty?" Arthur called over the wind.
Mors nodded thoughtfully. "That's what it looks like."
The riders began to fan out, spreading wide to surround the hill.
"Don't give them the chance," Mors ordered. "Fire—now!"
He and the others loosed their fire flasks. Mors's shot struck the center of the formation; the explosion ripped through it in a burst of flame and smoke. Arthur and Jorran's flasks exploded left and right a heartbeat later, scattering the enemy line.
"Ahh, damn it!"
"Bloody hells!"
"By the Seven!"
Cries of pain and confusion echoed through the smoke.
One of the cloaked riders bellowed, "Forget surrounding them—charge!"
The attackers spurred their horses forward.
"Formation! Loose!" Arthur shouted, loosing an arrow.
A volley of shafts hissed through the air. Several riders fell screaming before they ever reached the hill. By the time the rest closed in, nearly fifteen lay dead or dying.
Brynden moved like a war machine, loosing arrows faster than most men could draw breath.
"Spear formation!" Arthur barked. "Ground the spears—aim for the horses!"
"Yes, ser!" the men shouted in unison.
The next moment, chaos erupted. The charge hit like a storm. Spears shattered under the impact; men were thrown back or trampled. But many horses went down screaming, throwing their riders into the dirt.
Mors spun Solaris in his grip, driving its tip through a rider's chest before vaulting onto a fallen horse. Using it as a springboard, he leapt upward, kicked another rider clean from his saddle, and landed behind him. His spear swept in a vicious arc—steel slicing through neck and shoulder in one clean motion.
Around him, Jorran and Arthur fought in tandem, cutting through dismounted foes. The clash of steel and screams of dying horses filled the air.
Brynden moved with fierce agility, cutting through the attackers with technique worthy of a legend.
Then came the sound of more hooves—fast, heavy, approaching from the northwest. Mors turned just in time to see Oberyn, Manfrey, and Garth leading twenty riders, their banners snapping as they thundered across the field.
"Reinforcements!" Mors shouted. "Hold strong!"
The Dornish soldiers roared, pressing forward with renewed fury. The attackers faltered, panic breaking their charge. A few turned to flee—only to find Oberyn's group cutting them off.
Half of Oberyn's riders gave chase, spears flashing in the sunlight, while the rest crashed into the melee to reinforce Mors's line.
The hilltop was soon a storm of steel and flame, the smell of burning flesh and horsehide heavy in the air.
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Thirty minutes later, the field was quiet, the clatter of battle fading into a hard hush. Mors knelt beside one of the three fallen Dornishmen and gently closed the man's eyes with his hand, a silent gesture of respect. There had been no time to help them during the charge—three of his men were gone, and two more lay badly wounded, one with a broken arm and another with a shattered leg.
He rose with a heavy sigh. Ser Arthur and Ser Jorran stood beside him, faces drawn.
Brynden watched in silence, bearing the solemnity of one long accustomed to fallen comrades.
Jorran broke the quiet, his voice low. "This is the life we chose, Your Grace. Don't let it eat at you. We all know you'll do right by them—and their families."
Mors nodded once. "That I will."
A shout cut through the air. Oberyn swaggered over, grin wide, dragging a man between two guards. The captive kicked and cursed, hood still clinging to his head.
"Brother," Oberyn crowed, "do I have a present for you!" His grin faltered when he saw the dead men. A shadow crossed his features before his old mischief returned.
Mors looked at the still-hooded figure being hauled forward, then at the bound survivors held by other Dornish. Oberyn practically danced with impatience. "Guess who it is! Guess!"
Manfrey covered his face with a hand. "Oberyn—"
Mors, not wanting to play along, offered a name at random. "Robert Baratheon?"
"No," Oberyn said, mock-disappointed. Then, with theatrical flourish, he tossed back the hood. "Lord Monford Velaryon."
The man revealed himself: fair-haired, Valyrian features marred by blood and bruises, eyes blazing with hatred. He bared his teeth at Mors, fury cutting through the pain.
"Lord Monford!" Brynden exclaimed, surprise flashing across his face.
Mors's jaw tightened. "Him?" His tone dripped with disgust. "I took him for more bark than bite. He hated us enough at the tourney—but to leap from spite to regicide…" He clicked his tongue once, sharp.
Oberyn added with dark amusement, "He did try to kill me outright at the tilt."
Mors leveled a look at Oberyn. "And when you choose to joust without a helm, you invite a man to try." His voice held no warmth.
Oberyn gave a rueful shrug. "Fair."
Mors turned to the bound Velaryon. "Tell me: who are you working with?"
Monford spat. "You filthy mongrel—an insult to Targaryen blood. The real Targaryens will return and burn you. It should have been you, not my brother." His words were broken by a snarl; his bravado threatened to crumble.
Brynden's brows furrowed tightly at that, clearly not liking the implication.
Mors's smile deepened, measured and unbothered. "That's a promising start. Let's move on to names."
"Over my dead body," Monford hissed, then laughed once, ugly and high.
Mors's smile sharpened. He crouched until he was level with the man, voice soft as a blade.
"You'll speak. You'll sing, if that's what it takes." Mors tapped the captive's jaw lightly—more promise than blow. "You will wish we had killed you outright."
Oberyn laughed, delighted. "I've some new poisons I've been itching to try. They don't kill—oh, they hurt. Very much."
Manfrey leaned in to join the psychological assault. "Yeah—he's too pretty. We'll have to do something about that."
Brynden watched quietly, clearly uncomfortable with where this was headed, but choosing not to intervene.
Monford's bravado cracked. He went white. "No—no, wait! I'll talk, I'll talk."
Mors's voice cooled. "Oberyn, I'll leave the cleanup to you. We need every scrap of information from them, but we cannot return Monford to Highgarden."
Oberyn's grin sharpened. "Don't worry. We'll take him to Skyreach. He'll talk once he's had a taste of Dornish hospitality."
Monford tried to protest before one of the guards gagged him. "I'm willing to talk now!" he managed to shout.
Manfrey's face went suddenly nervous. "Oh—well, in that case, I will—"
Mors cut him off with a single look that admitted no argument. "Manfrey. You'll accompany him. Make amends for what you did to Lord Franklyn Fowler's daughters. See this handled as I order."
Manfrey sagged, then bowed. "By your will, Your Grace."
Mors smirked at that and shared a quick look with Oberyn, both quietly amused by Manfrey's suffering.
They stepped aside, out of earshot of the prisoners.
Mors turned to Oberyn. "Let him stew. Get what you can before you ride. Send the results to Highgarden."
Brynden seemed to release a quiet breath at that.
Then Mors faced him. "Ser Brynden, I know Lord Monford hails from the Stormlands, but this is a Dornish issue. We'll handle it as Dornish business. Please understand."
Brynden nodded solemnly. "No worries, King Mors. I won't be speaking for a traitor anytime soon—but do share whatever you uncover that might concern us."
Mors inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Then he faced Arthur and Jorran. "Arthur, Jorran—we continue on Lyanna's trail. We'll ride through the night, at most until dawn, and then we return. With these prisoners in hand, we should begin to peel back the enemy's veil."
Arthur and Jorran nodded.
Ser Garth stepped forward. "My king, allow me to accompany you—as is my duty."
Brynden added, "I came to help find Princess Lyanna, so I'll continue forward as well."
Mors nodded. "Very well. Prepare the horses. We ride at once."
As the others moved to ready their mounts, Mors lingered for a moment, eyes on the horizon.
'Where are you, foolish girl?' he thought grimly, his gaze sweeping the shadowed stretch of the Reach.