Early 276 AC – The coast north of Wyl, the Boneway
Night – One Month Before the Lannisport Tourney
POV I - Lord Ormund Yronwood
Lord Ormund Yronwood and Ser Karyl Wyl, heir to House Wyl, waited in silence, cloaks drawn tight against the night air. A handful of guards stood at a distance as sentinels.
Karyl shifted uneasily. "Lord Ormund… father-in-law, how much longer must we wait? If the Martells find out—"
Ormund exhaled through his nose, heavy with contempt. "Karyl, can you stop being a craven twat for one moment? The arrow has already left the bow. This is no time for hesitation. The Martells will not find out. Their blockade is focused south and southeast, not here. They have not pushed this far." He eyed Karyl with open disappointment. 'If the boy acted more like a man, perhaps my precious Sarella would not have cucked him with Oberyn Martell. That would have been a proper match… but no, fate denied me that.'
Karyl swallowed. "My father arranged all of this, but… if we are caught, this could—"
Ormund struck him across the face, the sound sharp in the night. "Silence, you sniveling fool. Your father is dying, and soon gone. That makes you the one I must rely upon—my vassal, my grandson's father. You will fulfill your role. Once House Martell falls, the ashes will be our chance to rise. Many of Sunspear's finest will soon depart for the tourney—I cannot say which, but their absence will be our moment to strike." He turned, spotting movement by the shore. His eyes narrowed. "Get up. Our guests have arrived. Try to look presentable—for once—as a proper lord of Dorne."
A small fishing ship nudged against the shallows. Five men disembarked, two remaining to guard the boat while three approached. At their head walked a giant of a man, tall and broad, clad in Myrish garb, a grisly axe hanging at his side.
"You. Ormund?" the man rumbled in broken Common Tongue.
Ormund stepped forward, courtly in tone. "That I am. Lord Ormund Yronwood, at your service. This is Ser Karyl Wyl, my ally and kin. And you are Captain Tazrik?"
The giant sneered. "Hmm. Don't care. True what they say? We kill Martells?"
Karyl instinctively stepped back at the man's size. Ormund sighed in disgust. "That we can. But first, are you Tazrik, or not?"
The brute furrowed his brow, then gave a curt nod. "I am Tazrik the Great. I command the pirates."
Ormund's tone warmed faintly. "Good. Then we can reach an accord. In two months' time, Sunspear will be at its weakest. Most of their fleet and standing host remain tied at Ghaston Grey, hounding me. If timed properly, I can grant you easy entry into the castle. You will raze it to the ground." He smiled cruelly.
Tazrik studied him, then grinned with jagged teeth. "Ha! I love how you kill each other. Good. Will that Valyrian be there? I want to split him with my axe."
Ormund's expression flickered, then he nodded. "Perhaps. If not, the blow will wound him all the same."
Tazrik grunted, disappointed, but finally said, "Then we have an accord."
Karyl, emboldened, blurted out, "Wait—you should kill Oberyn too! He's in Oldtown, but we could draw him out—"
Tazrik's eyes narrowed. He spat at Karyl's feet. "Rat. You stink of rat. Speak to me like that again and I'll cut you in half."
Ormund stepped quickly between them, bowing slightly. "Enough. Captain Tazrik, when the time comes, I'll send word."
Tazrik gave a curt nod. "Good." He turned, stomping back toward the waiting boat with his men.
Ormund stood in silence for a moment before looking back at Karyl, his face unreadable.
"I just… I wanted—" Karyl stammered.
Ormund only shook his head. "Come. We're done here."
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Mid 277 AC – White Tower Training Grounds, King's Landing
One Month After the Rescue of King Aerys
POV II – Ser Arthur Dayne
Steel clashed in the training yard. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, circled Ser Barristan Selmy, two practice longswords flashing in his hands. Barristan pressed forward with sword and shield, his movements measured, his presence unshakable. Arthur's strikes came swift and fluid, a blur of feints and flourishes, while Barristan countered with unyielding technique and perfect economy of motion.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood with arms folded, watching. "Enough," he called. "We've work yet to do. Ser Oswell and Ser Harlan must be relieved."
The two knights broke apart, nodding respectfully before placing their practice weapons back in the racks.
"Arthur," Gerold's voice cut across the yard, "what's wrong with you? You've been distracted since Duskendale. Still brooding over our failure in duty?"
Arthur stilled. Barristan, about to leave, turned back at once.
"Arthur," he said gently, "will you finally speak of it? We are brothers here. Whatever weighs on you, share it."
Arthur looked between them, then down at the dirt. After a long pause, he sighed, as though steeling himself. He raised his eyes to Gerold. "Lord Commander… what is a knight?"
Gerold and Barristan exchanged startled looks. Gerold frowned. "Is that what troubles you? I doubt you mean the definition. A knight is meant to embody the chivalric virtues—honor, loyalty, courage, the defense of the weak, service to one's liege. The ideal every warrior should aspire to."
Barristan gave a quiet nod of agreement.
Arthur listened, then looked skyward. His voice took on the solemn cadence of ritual as he recited:
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.
In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.
In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.
In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.
In the name of the Smith, I charge you to work diligently and honorably.
In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise.
In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death with courage."
As he finished, Barristan and Gerold stood a little taller, quietly repeating the words with him.
But Arthur's voice hardened. "I swore these vows. We swore them. Yet… you've seen the king. The slaughter of innocent smallfolk at Duskendale. You've seen how he treats Queen Rhaella. You've seen the prince's mask—how many corpses lie hidden beneath it."
The weight of his words hung heavy. Barristan clenched a fist, anger flashing across his face. Gerold seemed to sag, shoulders drawn with age and burden.
Arthur lowered his gaze, confusion and regret etched in his voice. "Am I still a knight?"
Neither man spoke at first. At last, Gerold straightened, donning the mantle of Lord Commander. "No," he said gravely. "You gave that up the moment you became a Kingsguard."
Arthur and Barristan both stared at him.
Gerold held their eyes, then recited with deliberate weight:
"I swear to ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his.
I swear to obey, to serve, to defend.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
I shall guard his secrets, obey his commands,
ride at his side, and defend his honor until my last breath."
He exhaled deeply. "These are not vows of chivalry. They are vows of absolute loyalty—for the king, for the realm. Never forget that… and guard your tongue, for your own sake."
Gerold turned to leave, pausing at the edge of the yard. "It's too late to second-guess your vows now. But if ever you doubt, come to me. With the exception of Harlan, I am older than the rest of you. I've wrestled with these same thoughts. I can provide guidance." Then he was gone.
Silence lingered until Barristan spoke softly. "Arthur… will you be alright?"
Arthur nodded faintly. "I'll manage. But I fear for Mors—and for my sister. The prince… something is wrong with him."
At Ashara's name, Barristan stiffened, his whole demeanor shifting. "What did you hear?"
Arthur blinked. "I'm not certain. But I overheard Jon Connington and Prince Rhaegar speaking. They spoke of 'dealing' with Mors. Rhaegar muttered about prophecies—said Mors might be a contender. He's been… fixated on Dorne, especially on Mors."
Barristan's face grew solemn. He let out a long breath. "Say nothing of this. Speak only to me if you hear more. We owe Prince Mors much. And your sister… she is in good hands."
The two knights shared a look, an unspoken understanding forged in silence.
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Start of 278 AC – Lord's Solar, The Eyrie Castle, The Vale
Three Day's After Lord Steffon's Death
POV III – Eddard Stark
Shouting reverberated through the ancient halls, the falcon banners shifting in the constant wind that swept the high throne room of the Eyrie.
Eddard Stark sighed as he watched his foster father, Jon Arryn, once again trying to restrain Robert Baratheon from doing something reckless with the help of Elbert Arryn. It was the tenth time in three days. Robert's parents, Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana, had perished in a pirate attack on their return from a mission for King Aerys—leaving Robert, at sixteen, the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.
"Seven hells, Jon, Elbert, let me go!" Robert roared, swinging away, struggling against his own grief as much as Jon's steady words. "I'll raise my banners, march to the Stepstones, and smash that Sand Dragon with my hammer! Then I'll scour every last pirate from the Narrow Sea!"
Elbert, sporting a black eye, shouted in exasperation, "Dammit, you wild stag—calm yourself!"
Jon's voice remained calm but weary. "Robert, we've been over this. It was not Prince Mors's doing—"
"Wasn't it?!" Robert snapped, panting. "Who was it that drove the pirates out of the Stepstones? Who was it that set up his so-called 'order' there?"
Eddard kept his silence, though his thoughts stirred. 'Robert is grieving, he's not thinking properly. Prince Mors only followed the charge laid upon him by King Aerys. The earlier pirate skirmishes were fought defending his family. From what I've heard, he does nothing lightly—every act rooted in duty and honor. Even Brandon speaks highly of him… and that's saying something, considering Brandon once tried to charm his betrothed and earned a sharp rebuke for it.'
Elbert, still rubbing at his bruised eye, raised his hands. "Please, Robert, calm down. One more swing like that and I'll be half-blind before supper."
"Ned!" Robert's voice tore him from his thoughts. "Don't just stand there like a training dummy. Tell Jon! Tell Elbert! Tell them it's all that bastard's fault!"
Eddard opened his mouth but found no words. Thankfully, Jon spoke for him.
Jon rubbed his brow with a weary sigh, casting a concerned glance at Elbert before fixing Robert with steady eyes. "Robert… even if there were fault—which you know in your heart there is not—Prince Mors is no foe you can afford. He is prince of a rising realm, tied closely to Dorne, and favored by the king. I thought that after three days you would have cooled your temper." His eyes softened. "Can you at least set it aside until we lay your parents to rest?"
Robert's shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of him. His voice dropped low. "What does it matter? A Dornish alliance, the king's favor… with the Stormlands, the Vale, and the North united, do we have cause to fear anyone?" But his bravado rang hollow in the shadow of his grief.
Eddard studied Robert with pity. 'To lose one's parents so suddenly… Despite standing as tall as a grown man at 6'3" (190cm), he is only sixteen, same as Elbert—barely a year older than me.'
Eddard stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Robert's shoulder. "Robert, Jon and Elbert are right. Take time to breathe, to grieve. You know Elbert and I are your brothers, and we'll stand with you through this, aye. But now—think of Stannis, and of Renly."
Robert gave a bitter laugh. "Stannis will manage—the sullen fool always does. He never shows a thing, never cracks, sometimes I wonder if he even has a heart. But Renly… Renly's only a babe. He'll never know our mother's arms, her warmth, never hear her voice again—" His voice faltered, then broke into a furious roar. "And all because of that bastard!"
The chamber echoed with his fury. Eddard only sighed. 'Here we go again…'
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Early 278 AC – Myr, Abandoned Cot
Three days before Mors's arrival
POV IV – Ser Idrin Qho
In the shadows of a ruined cot, Ser Idrin Qho had clandestine meeting with the informant Spymaster Arodan Sand had secured for him. The woman—once a slave, now hardened and scarred—had proven invaluable. Through her network she'd sown chaos among the fractured guilds and syndicates of Myr.
"Madam Mallary," Idrin began, his voice low but eager, "your help has been priceless. If you called me here with such urgency, I take it something significant has happened?" He studied her closely. Beneath her scars and stoic demeanor, he could imagine the beauty she once carried before cruelty had carved her life to pieces.
Mallary glanced around the room, eyes sharp with fear of discovery. "Yes. Something major. The syndicates held a secret meeting under pressure from the conclave of magisters. They've agreed to settle their disputes in one final battle, to restore 'stability' in Myr and decide who claims the lion's share of power. They're pulling back their men for it. Four days from now, they'll fight. Amazing, really, how much drunk men will confess to a pretty courtesan."
Idrin chuckled nervously. "Hah… yes, drink loosens many tongues." But as her words sank in, his mind raced. 'They'll pull back all their forces… for one decisive clash.' His pulse quickened. The timing was perfect. He'd been dying to test the new modifications to his fire flasks—devices he could now set to ignite at timed intervals. His eyes widened with glee, and a strange, manic cackle slipped free.
Mallary recoiled, edging a step toward the door. Handsome though Idrin was, in that moment he looked utterly unhinged.
Realizing his gaffe, Idrin reined in his grin. "Forgive me, madam. A thought struck me—an excellent plan. Tell me… you and your people, you wouldn't be opposed to a little fire, would you?"
Mallary tilted her head, suspicion giving way to curiosity. "A little fire? You mean… burn them? While they're inside?" Her lips curved into something sharper.
"That's exactly it," Idrin said, excitement bubbling. "In fact—we could go further. Not just the barracks while they sleep. The syndicate buildings, their ports, their ships, their factories… we could cripple Myr in one blow."
Mallary's eyes went wide, then narrowed with ruthless delight. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. "Yes… yes, I see it now. That would be perfect. You'll have our full support. Whatever you need—say the word."
Idrin and Mallary exchanged a conspirator's grin. In the silence of the abandoned cot, their plotting gave way to occasional, eerie bursts of laughter—strange cackles heralding the spark of something catastrophic.
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Early 278 AC – Lord's Solar, Sunspear
One Week After Doran's Inauguration
POV V – Prince Doran Martell
As Doran made his way toward his solar for an important meeting, Oberyn suddenly intercepted him.
"Brother," Oberyn said sharply, "when can I finally see my boy, Maron? Those pompous Bloodroyals keep him from me out of spite. This cannot be allowed to stand!"
Doran sighed. "Soon, Oberyn. Calm yourself—it won't be long now."
"I am calm!" Oberyn snapped. "I've wanted to ride to Yronwood for over a year and tear those bastards apart for daring to keep me from my son—and to put pressure on us. As Prince of Dorne, surely you won't allow it. Look how they insulted you at your inauguration. By the way—well done putting them in their place. That was thrilling to watch."
Doran's expression grew more serious as he recalled that day. "Will you be leaving again?"
"Not if something interesting is happening," Oberyn said with a grin.
"Follow me, then."
They entered the solar, where Areo Hotah stood with a contingent of guards. Recently raised to captain of the guard, the Norvosi towered like a fortress in flesh. Doran nodded to him and stepped inside.
Oberyn's surprise was plain when he saw who awaited them: Prince Lewyn Martell, Prince Manfrey Martell—already being groomed as Lewyn's successor with the Spears of the Sun—Lord Beric Dayne, Lord Franklyn "Old Hawk" Fowler, Lord Ulrick Uller, Lord Trebor Jordayne, nephew of their father, and, unexpectedly, Lord Dagos Manwoody—long counted a loyal vassal of House Yronwood.
"Good," Doran said as he took his seat. "You are all here. Sit."
They bowed their heads. "Thank you, my prince."
Doran laced his fingers and looked each man in the eye before speaking.
"Lord Ormund Yronwood has betrayed Dorne."
The room rippled with surprise. Only Dagos Manwoody seemed unsurprised.
Doran continued. "His vassals, especially Lord Edmund Wyl, have betrayed Dorne."
All eyes turned to Dagos, who shifted uneasily under their scrutiny.
"And Lord Dagos Manwoody, Lord of Redmarch, was drawn into their schemes as well." Doran's words hung like a death sentence. He let the silence linger before adding, "But it was unintentional. We have reached an arrangement. He and his house will be pardoned… depending on their performance."
Lord Beric leaned forward. "Performance of what, my prince?"
Doran's mouth curled in a cold smile. "Their performance when we crush this rebellion in its infancy."
Now all understood.
"In two weeks," Doran said, "the noose I have prepared will close. Houses Yronwood and Wyl will be nearly exterminated. We will spare only the youngest male heirs, who will be raised as my wards. The rest—the true culprits—will rot in Ghaston Grey as a lesson to all Dorne."
His eyes swept the lords. "You are the ones I trust most. When this is done, you will stand as the strongest lords of Dorne." His gaze lingered on Dagos. "And you will be remembered as the lucky one who saw the writing on the wall and chose the proper side."
His tone hardened. "They orchestrated Oberyn's vilification in the court of rumor. They enabled the pirate raid upon Sunspear, wreaking havoc even in Planky Town. They conspire still with foreign powers, plotting rebellion. They endangered Dorne itself."
The room fell silent.
"Do not mistake my calm for weakness," Doran said coldly. "I was my mother's Master of Whisperers before I became her Hand. Trust me—you do not want me focused on you."
He leaned back. "In two weeks, they fall. Prepare yourselves. Uncle Lewyn will coordinate with you." His eyes fixed on Dagos one last time, who avoided eye contact. "Dismissed."
The lords filed out, murmuring.
Oberyn burst into laughter. "Magnificent! This is the best news I've had in months. Thank you, brother—this is a gift." He clapped Manfrey on the shoulder, and called out to Trebor. "Come, cousins, let's celebrate."
Trebor smiled, and followed. Manfrey hesitated, glancing at Lewyn and Doran for approval. Receiving a nod, he fell in step behind Oberyn.
Once the solar was quiet, Lewyn turned to Doran. "Why exclude Mors? You waited until he left to reveal your plan. Why?"
Doran deflated into his chair, rubbing his brow. "Uncle… what do the people call Mors?"
Lewyn frowned, then answered reluctantly. "They call him the Sun of Dorne. The Dragon of the South. The—"
"Exactly—and on and on," Doran cut in. "The accolades never end. They would rather have him as Prince of Dorne than me—me, who has labored in silence for years to keep us safe. When Mother ruled, Mors was seen as her tool, her extension. Under me, his fame only undermines my rule—proof to some that I am unworthy. And besides… Mors is ruler of his own realm now."
Lewyn sat down slowly. "Doran, don't let this fester between you. He is still your brother."
"It won't," Doran said softly. "I love my siblings dearly—especially Mors. I would burn the world to protect them. But we each have a duty: to the realm, to House Martell. I let Oberyn follow his whims because, in the end, it serves us. Elia has her role as well."
He sighed, his shoulders heavy. "But it is regrettable. We once held the greatest weapon Dorne has ever known… and in a single stroke, Aerys stole it from my grasp. With Mors bound to the Stepstones, our strength is divided. Yet this is still the strongest Dorne has ever been. And if the time comes, I know Mors will answer."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a letter, weighing it before passing it to Lewyn.
Lewyn read—and paled. "Is he mad?" He looked up, expecting outrage, but saw only contemplation in Doran's eyes. "You cannot be considering this. Tell me you are not."
Doran sighed. "What is there to consider? It is beyond my hands. Rhaegar wishes to bind our houses closer. He convinced Aerys to wed him to Elia, annulling her betrothal to Baelor Hightower by royal decree. And… though she once favored Baelor, I know Elia has loved Rhaegar from the moment they met."
Lewyn stared as if at a stranger. "Doran—you can reject this outright, even as a token gesture. And you, more than anyone, know how Mors feels about him. This is not a matter of temperament. Mors believes he is dangerous. With his abilities, with the knowledge of what he is—are you truly willing to bind Elia to Rhaegar? And with rebellion on the horizon? We have prepared to withstand it, not sink into it!" He flung the letter back at Doran, his voice hot with fury.
Doran calmly folded the letter and slipped it back into the drawer. Silence stretched until he spoke, voice cool and deliberate. "That is the point, Uncle. We know it is coming. We know where from. And now, with our strength and wealth, we can seize the chance to guide its course. If Mother were still alive and in her prime, she would see the wisdom in it. All we need is one heir from Elia and Rhaegar. After that, the danger can be… removed. With an ideal heir, and the Seven Kingdoms weakened by war, House Martell can reign supreme."
Lewyn's eyes widened, then dimmed with weariness. He rose slowly, walked to the door, and stopped. "If this goes forward, I will resign my post. I will follow Elia, and I will protect her with my life. I will not leave her to that wretch. You are Prince of Dorne now, but remember—Mors is not your vassal. And Oberyn would burn the world for Elia. If you are not afraid of alienating them… then continue."
With that, Lewyn left, his disappointment like a shadow in the room.
Doran remained staring at the door. After a long silence, he murmured, "…is it wrong to want our house to be more?"