It had been twenty days since the battle at the Prince's Pass, where the Dornish–Stepstones host shattered the Reach army and captured Lord Mace Tyrell. The blow was crippling for the royal faction, nearly removing the Reach from the war entirely—though word of the defeat would take time to spread across Westeros.
In the Riverlands, the rebels suffered disaster. Attempting a pincer strike against the royal host entrenched at Atranta, the Riverlander and Northern armies advanced, while the Vale marched wide to strike from Stonehedge in the east. But they failed to notice the new bigger Westerland host sweeping down from behind. Before the Vale could join the fight, the rebels were caught between hammer and anvil—Crownlanders and Reachmen to their front, Westerlanders and Ironborn to their rear. The result was ruin. Nearly fifteen thousand rebels fell, five thousand of them Riverlords. Only the timely arrival of the Vale host prevented complete annihilation, buying enough time for a retreat to Riverrun Castle. The fortress was hastily fortified further as the battered rebels licked their wounds. Royal losses numbered fewer than five thousand.
Jaime Lannister, who had slipped unnoticed into the host under Lord Leo Lefford's command, distinguished himself in the fighting. Though but fourteen, he wielded sword and shield with a prowess that astonished even seasoned knights, felling foes with a speed and precision rare in one so young. Word of his valor spread quickly, and when Prince Rhaegar himself took note, he praised Jaime openly and, on the field, knighted him. Were it not for Prince Mors Martell having earned his spurs sooner still, Jaime's feat would have stood unmatched in recent living memory. Lord Tywin's wrath at his heir's recklessness was sharp, yet even he could not suppress his pride at the honor. From that day forward, though Jaime was permitted to remain with the host, Tywin kept him ever close at his side, unwilling to risk his son stealing back into battle unseen.
Yet worse followed for the rebels. As they dug in at Riverrun, a string of mysterious murders unsettled the camp, ending in a bloody melee that left Lord Rickard Stark maimed, his sword-hand gone below the elbow, and Brandon Stark gravely wounded. The culprit—known only as the "Smiling Knight"—was slain in the brawl, but not before cutting down Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel and Mark Ryswell from the northern host. In the chaos, the remaining Kingswood Brotherhood, who first swore to Robert Baratheon's cause, seeing the death of one of their lead members, and not understanding the full series of events, turned their blades against Northern men. Dozens died before Robert Baratheon, Hoster Tully, and Denys Arryn imposed order, but the damage lingered. Distrust festered, and the bond between the North and Stormlands turned bitter cold. With Rickard bedridden by fever, Brandon—though still recovering from his wounds—assumed temporary command.
Now, with the rebels weakened and divided, the royal host encircled Riverrun, determined to end the war at its heart—breaking the rebellion and punishing Robert Baratheon, whom the king named the chief instigator of treason.
Prince Rhaegar and the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, offered terms to Lords Denys Arryn, Rickard Stark, and Hoster Tully: surrender, bend the knee, deliver Robert Baratheon, and offer hostages in pledge of loyalty—and they would be permitted to return home in peace.
But could they trust the word of a Mad King who had already burned alive an heir of a realm, while the lord died mysteriously in his hands?
The realm held its breath, waiting to see how the war—and the fate of Westeros—would be decided.
Current Forces Engaged
Royal Faction: ~55K
Opposition Faction: ~52K
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Beginning of 280 AC – Redgrass Field, The Crownlands
Dawn broke slow and pale over the Crownlands, the rising sun still little more than a crimson edge on the horizon. Dew clung to the tents and glimmered on the armor laid out to dry. The Dornish–Stepstones host rested after twenty relentless days of marching—two days riding, half a day resting, the rhythm of soldiers bound for war. Having crossed the Reach at last, they now camped at the fringes of the Crownlands. If all went well, in five more days they would reach the Riverlands. Yet the news that reached them along the way gave little comfort.
Mors was already awake, his tent open to the chill morning air. He moved alone in the clearing, blades flashing in measured arcs. Unlike his usual training, today he fought with sword and dagger together—both Valyrian steel, both breathtaking in craftsmanship. He flowed through each motion—thrusts, sweeps, vaults, a blur of fluid precision.
A familiar whistle broke the silence.
"Seven hells, that's impressive, brother," Oberyn called, grinning as he approached.
Mors slowed, then sheathed the dagger and turned, still smiling faintly. "Just getting used to the weight."
He lifted the black longsword, its rippled steel catching the dawn. "It's a fine blade."
Oberyn chuckled. "I'd hope so—it's Valyrian steel. Orphan-Maker, isn't it?"
Mors nodded.
Oberyn folded his arms. "Will you return it to Lord Roxton after the war? You don't have to…"
Mors hummed in thought. "We'll see. For now, it serves me well." He spun the sword once, cutting air before sliding it home into its sheath.
Oberyn's eyes flicked between the weapons—Orphan-Maker, the Valyrian dagger Crocea, and the spear Solaris slung across Mors's back. He let out a low whistle. "You know, I always thought Valyrian steel was rare enough that most men die without ever seeing one. Even Tywin Lannister would trade a fortune for a blade like that. I've searched for years and found nothing—and you…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
Mors smirked. "Sounds like a performance issue on your part, brother. Truly tragic."
Oberyn gaped in mock outrage. "Performance issue?!" He lunged at him, and the two brothers grappled briefly, laughing as they rolled in the grass.
"Children," came Doran's weary voice. He had approached unseen and now stood rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Must I send you both to your tents for punishment? Mors, you're a prince—act like one. Oberyn…" He sighed. "Well. I suppose there's only so much to hope for."
Mors and Oberyn broke apart, still grinning as they dusted themselves off and started back toward the camp. But halfway there, Mors suddenly froze. His head turned southeast, eyes narrowing.
Doran and Oberyn stopped as well, their laughter fading.
"Someone's coming?" Doran asked.
Mors's jaw tightened. "Yes. Many. Wake everyone. They'll be here in less than half an hour."
Doran and Oberyn exchanged a quick glance, then ran to rouse the camp.
By the time the first distant thunder of hooves reached them, the soldiers of Dorne and the Stepstones were already mounted, tents packed, banners drawn down. A wall of dust rose on the horizon, and the morning stillness gave way to the pulse of war once more.
They made out the banners at last—black stag of the Stormlands among others—and a ripple of tension eased through Mors's men. Mors allowed himself a small exhale. "It's the Stormlands!" he called back, and the line relaxed a fraction, though vigilance remained; old grudges die hard.
Two hosts faced one another across the field. A detachment of seven rode up with Mors—Doran and Oberyn at his side, Areo Hotah, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Qerrin Toland, and Ser Garth Hightower among them. Across from them stood a stern youth of about sixteen: broad-shouldered, tightly set, handsome if not for the constant furrow of his brow. Beside him sat an older man whose grave features were softened by eyes that had seen much; another, younger but equally imposing that looked very much like the older man, rode nearby. A pair of riders trailed behind, banners snapping in the wind.
Mors took the front, Doran to his left. He folded his arms, letting his voice carry. "I am Prince Mors Martell of the Stepstones, and this is Prince Doran Martell of Dorne. Prince Oberyn and our guard ride with us. You bear the Stormlands' colors—are you bound for the Riverlands to join the rebels?"
The youth rode forward and answered with measured brevity. "I am Lord Stannis Baratheon. At my flank are my grandfather, Lord Edwyn Estermont of the Isles, and my uncle, Ser Eldon Estermont. Behind us are my cousins Ser Aemon and Ser Lomas Estermont. We ride to join my brother in the Riverlands. And you—do you march for the same cause?"
Mors scanned the Estermont contingent with a quick appraisal—solid men, committed—and nodded. "We were at the Prince's Pass. We routed the Reach there and hold Lord Mace Tyrell captive. Our plan is to force the Reach's hand in the Riverlands, weakening the Royal Loyalist, while we focused on routing the rest."
At that Stannis's face changed, a spark of grim satisfaction brightening his features. "Good. We bring five thousand riders. We can join you and strike together."
Mors and Doran exchanged a look and inclined their heads in agreement. Doran's voice was measured but firm: "Then welcome, Lord Stannis. Together we will end this war."
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Ten Days Later- Outside of Riverrun
It was evening when they arrived. The air was thick with the scent of ash and iron—the taste of blood and defeat. From beyond the hills came the low, rhythmic thunder of siege engines, and the flicker of firelight on distant tents painted the fields in a sickly orange hue. The oppression of war hung heavy.
For five days they had slowed their pace, forced to deal with patrols and scattered garrisons along the way to keep their rear secure. Now, as they looked down upon the encamped host encircling Riverrun, they finally saw the full scale of the war's heart.
Mors, Oberyn, Eddard, Arthur, Qerrin, and Elton crouched among the rocks, watching the enemy camps stretch to the horizon. Every so often, a massive boulder or heavy quarrel arced through the air toward Riverrun's walls—to little effect. The fortress stood defiant, its stone walls scarred but unbroken. How long those within could hold, however, was another question entirely.
Oberyn's usual levity was gone. "...This is worse than I expected."
Mors studied the lines for a long while before speaking. "At least fifty thousand men, probably more. The Reach alone makes up fifteen… I can't speak for what's left inside the walls."
A grim silence followed.
Then Mors murmured faintly. "We've seen enough. Let's head back."
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They retreated back to the forest north of Acorn Ridge where they regrouped with their army and gathered the commanders in a makeshift council tent. As reports were shared, Doran watched his younger brother closely—the furrow in Mors's brow told him he was already forming a plan.
"Mors," Doran said finally, "you have that look again. What are you thinking?"
Mors looked around the table. "Having Mace Tyrell as our captive helps—but it won't be enough. The enemy's numbers are too great. We need coordination from within Riverrun itself."
The implication landed.
Silence.
Then unease.
Doran's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you plan to go inside yourself."
Mors's only answer was a quiet smile.
"Seven hells, Mors!" Doran snapped. "You can't keep throwing yourself into danger like this!"
Even Oberyn—reckless as ever—gave a reluctant nod of agreement.
Lord Edwyn Estermont spoke up. "How many men are you thinking to send?"
Mors's smirk widened. "Just one."
It took a moment for them to realize he meant himself.
Stannis's brows furrowed. "As skilled as you may be, Prince Mors, you can't hinge a war on one man. That's madness."
Mors looked past him to Doran and Oberyn. "You both know why. The more men I take, the more I have to divide my focus. Alone, I can move faster—and unseen."
Doran and Oberyn exchanged a heavy look. They understood. The more Mors spread his aura, the weaker it became… but if he acted alone, his full power could manifest.
Doran exhaled slowly. "You realize what that means. Once you do this, there's no hiding what you are… What you can do."
Mors placed a steady hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know. It's time they see what they truly face."
Doran's shoulders sank in resignation. Oberyn, by contrast, grinned broadly. "Then let them see!" he said with a laugh.
Eddard, already having witness everything himself, nodded solemnly.
Stannis and the Estermont men stared, bewildered. Eldon muttered to his father, "What in the seven hells are these Martells talking about?"
Lord Edwyn merely sighed, though concern now darkened his expression.
Mors straightened. "Then it's settled. I'll go alone."
Stannis ground his teeth. "What do you mean it's settled?! Nothing about this is settled! This isn't some Dornish game!"
Mors turned to him—and unleashed his aura.
The air thickened. A weight pressed down upon the tent. Stannis, Edwyn, and Eldon staggered back instinctively, hands flying to their weapons.
Eldon gasped, "What sorcery is this!?"
But before they could act, Mors extended his will—and the crushing pressure shifted. Strength flooded through them. Stannis blinked, looking at his hands as if seeing them anew. "I feel… stronger. Quicker. My thoughts—they are clearer." He looked up at Mors, eyes wide with awe and confusion.
Mors nodded once, then let the power fade. "That," he said calmly, "is why you need not worry. I am the chosen of the Seven—their champion."
He thought privately, 'Seven help me, I still cringe every time I say that… but it's the easiest explanation for them.'
Doran and Oberyn smirked knowingly, saying nothing.
Stannis, still shaken, straightened and gave a solemn nod. "Then I understand. You have my respect… and my caution. May the Seven guard you."
Lord Edwyn looked as if he wanted to object but held his tongue.
Mors exhaled and turned back to the group. "Good. Now, one last thing—we'll need to reach out to the Reachmen. If we can get them to act in concert, we can turn this siege into chaos. Bring Mace Tyrell—we'll see what information he can provide."
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The Red Fork – That Night
In the black of night, four shadowed figures cut silently through the cold waters of the Red Fork—heading straight for Riverrun.
Despite Mors's insistence on going alone, Ser Qerrin Toland and Ser Garth Hightower—his sworn sword-shields—had refused to let him. And Ser Arthur Dayne, though he knew Mors now surpassed him in skill, would not see his brother-in-law go unguarded. Mors aura covered them all, ensuring the cold wouldn't be too hard on them.
They halted mid-current.
Mors spoke low enough that only they could hear.
"From here we'll go under. Use the reeds to breathe. If anything goes wrong, signal me immediately."
Though uneasy, the three knights nodded.
A few moments later, four thin reeds drifted just beneath the water's surface, moving slowly toward the looming shadow of Riverrun. In the dark, they blended easily among weeds and ripples; only a keen eye at close range might have noticed. But with most of the garrison asleep, no one did.
They reached the iron grates that let the river flow beneath the castle. Mors surfaced first—only his eyes above the water. Seeing no movement, he signaled the others.
Garth emerged next, stifling a cough with his hand. Arthur steadied him.
"Get it out," Arthur whispered. "You did well to hold this long."
Garth drew a sharp breath between ragged chuckles. "I thought I was drowning…"
Mors's eyes swept the shadows for movement. Satisfied, he turned to the bars.
"We'll need to widen the gap. Let me handle it."
He gripped two bars, braced a foot against the stone, and pulled with his aura-strength. Instead of bending, one of the bars snapped free with a sharp crack.
"…Oops." He frowned, then shrugged. "Seems they've rusted through. I did them a favor discovering it. Ehm—let's move."
Arthur's lips twitched despite himself. He forced down a laugh. "Of course, Prince Mors. Ever the altruist."
They slipped through the opening and waded quietly to the riverbank inside the walls.
"So what's the plan now, my prince?" Qerrin asked softly. "Keep to the shadows?"
Mors glanced around, gauging the courtyard's emptiness. "No. We're not sneaking. We're announcing ourselves. If we startle anyone, it'll just make things worse."
Garth, Qerrin, and Arthur exchanged a look of mild disbelief but followed.
They approached a lone sentry slumped by a post, half asleep on his spear. Mors drew back his hood and called out in a calm tone, "Ho there! We come to aid you. Send word to Lord Hoster Tully at once."
The guard jolted upright, eyes going wide at the sight of Mors's pale hair and Valyrian features.
"By the Seven—the Targaryens are inside! Sound the alarm!"
Mors froze mid-step, face falling. "…Ah. Right. That's still a thing."
Within seconds, half a dozen men came running. Steel flashed in torchlight as they surrounded the four intruders. Arthur, Qerrin, and Garth stepped forward defensively, while Mors sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The captain barked, "Drop your weapons! Your infiltration's failed!"
Mors raised both hands slowly. "Stand down, men," he said to his knights. Then to the guards: "You're mistaken. I'm Prince Mors Martell, ruler of the Stepstones. We've come with reinforcements and entered to coordinate a counterattack. I revealed myself so you'd know we mean no harm. Please—take us to Lord Hoster."
The soldiers glanced at one another, startled by the claim, but their captain's caution held firm.
"Is that so? Then tell me—how did you get past almost sixty thousand men outside our walls?"
"Simple," Mors said evenly. "We swam the Red Fork. Came in through a small opening back there." He pointed toward the river grate.
The captain blinked. "Through the bars? Impossible. You—check it."
A younger guard balked. "What? In the river? It's freezing!"
"Now," the captain snapped.
Grumbling, the man stripped off his cuirass and waded in. A few minutes later, he resurfaced, sputtering. "It's true, ser! One of the bars is gone!"
The captain's expression changed from suspicion to alarm. "Seven hells… that could've been a disaster." He turned sharply to Mors. "My apologies, Prince Mors. It seems your story checks out. You may have just saved us from a night assault."
Mors, without missing a beat, inclined his head solemnly. "Of course. Always glad to help the cause. Now—time is short. Lead us to Lord Hoster."
"Yes, Prince Mors!" The captain barked new orders. "Seal that grate! Post two men there until dawn!"
As they followed the captain toward the inner courtyard, Arthur cast Mors a sidelong look, smirk tugging at his mouth. Mors met it briefly, then looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice.
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Riverrun – The Lords' Solar
The four soaked intruders were given blankets and a small hearth fire to dry themselves while they waited. The chamber smelled faintly of damp wool and smoke.
Garth spoke first, still rubbing warmth back into his hands. "You think this council will go smoothly?"
Arthur considered it, eyes on the flames. "It should. Lord Baratheon might roar a bit, but he's not unreasonable. With us here, cooler heads should prevail."
The door swung open. Lord Hoster Tully entered at a brisk pace, Ser Brynden Tully close behind. Relief and excitement lit Hoster's face the moment he saw them.
"By the Seven—it's true. Prince Mors Martell, here in Riverrun!"
Mors rose and inclined his head respectfully. "Well met, Lord Hoster. I believe this is the first time we really meet. We came as swiftly as we could. I assume we wait for the others before we begin?"
Hoster exhaled, the weight of weeks of siege showing in his tired eyes, but he nodded. "Aye. Best if all are present."
Brynden stepped forward with a faint grin. "Prince Mors—I remember watching you at the Tourney of Lannisport. Even then, I thought, 'That one will make his mark.' Seems I was right."
Mors returned the smile. "You honor me, Ser Brynden. Coming from a knight of your repute, that means much. Ser Barristan often speaks highly of you."
Brynden's brows rose. "Barristan? He's with you?!" His surprise broke through his usual calm.
But at that moment the door opened again, another familiar voice came from the doorway.
"Prince Mors! Seven hells, it's good to see you!"
Lord Denys Arryn strode in with a soldier's gait, grinning as he clasped Mors's forearm.
Mors smiled faintly. "Since the Lannisport tourney, wasn't it?"
Denys nodded, the grin fading. "Aye. Would that it were under better skies."
Mors hesitated, then spoke quietly. "I'm sorry for Jon and Elbert. I know they were close to you. Jon especially—he all but raised you."
Denys's expression darkened, his jaw tight. "Aye… and they'll pay for it. We can mourn the dead when the war's done."
The door slammed open again.
"You bastard!"
All heads turned as Robert Baratheon stormed in, fury written across every line of him. "This is your fault! All of it!"
Hoster and Denys groaned in unison and dragged their palms down their faces.
Robert charged, bellowing, "Ours is the fury!"
Mors sighed, already stepping forward. His guards tensed to intercept, but he raised a hand.
As Robert's massive right hook came swinging, Mors slipped aside, caught the man's wrist with his own, and drove his knee into the Stormlord's gut.
Robert folded with a strangled groan, half-drooling as he dropped to his knees. "Ooooh gods—"
Brandon Stark hurried in behind, one hand pressed to his stomach where a wound still troubled him, shaking his head in weary dismay. "Unfortunately, I couldn't stop him." He stepped past the fallen Robert to clasp Mors's forearm. "Prince Mors. I've wanted to speak with you since Lannisport—but I suppose this isn't the time. Is Eddard with you?"
Mors smirked faintly. "He is. He's with our camp outside. I'll bring him when things settle." He glanced down at Robert. "Though perhaps someone should fetch water first."
Hoster called for a servant. Robert was soon dragged to a chair, coughing and glaring daggers all the while.
When order returned, they gathered around the council table. The fire crackled as Mors began.
"The Reach host under Mace Tyrell was defeated. We hold Mace captive. He's with us. Our intent is to force the Reach to withdraw from the Riverlands while we move to crush the remaining royal forces. We brought five thousand cavalry for speed—and along the way, we met Lord Stannis Baratheon and the lords of Estermont, followed by other loyal stormlander lords. They brought another five thousand, fresh from purging their turncoats. But we need to know what we can count on from your side…"
Robert, still catching his breath, glanced up sharply at Stannis's name. His glare softened for an instant, then returned in full.
Brandon folded his arms, his tone level. "Inside these walls, we have thirty-five thousand left fit to fight. But rations are thin; morale thinner. The siege has cost us dearly."
Hoster nodded grimly. "We've lost too many already. The men are starving, but they'll stand if they have hope."
Mors's violet eyes swept the lords around the table. "Then we give them hope. We end this by tomorrow."
Denys leaned forward. "Truly?"
Mors nodded. "Wake every able man. Feed them well—today is their last day of hunger. When they're ready, I send the signal. Stannis's archers and mine will rain arrows on the royal camp; while they reel in confusion, we strike."
Denys frowned. "That's… a rather simple plan."
Surprisingly it was Robert, still rubbing his stomach, who grunted out in agreement, "Simple or not, it'll work if it hits hard enough."
Hoster shared a look with his brother Brynden, who nodded slightly.
"Sometimes simplicity wins the day," Hoster said.
Brynden continued, "Precision and timing will decide it. We'll prepare the men."
The others murmured in agreement.
Robert stood abruptly, a grin breaking through his bruised pride. "Then let's end this bloody war—and after, you and I have that duel, Martell!"
Mors only raised a brow. "I look forward to it."
Robert's laughter boomed as he left the room, followed by Brandon and Denys.
Hoster signaled to Brynden, who slipped out as well. Then he turned back to Mors, Arthur, Garth, and Qerrin. "The men will be seen to. In the meantime, join me for supper. Might be our last meal in peace for some time."
Mors nodded, a tired but genuine smile touching his face. "Very well, Lord Tully. Lead the way."
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The Battle of Riverrun
It was the hour before dawn—it felt cold, heavy, and there was a sense of anticipation in the air. Mors stood beside the lords of the allied host, each man silent, the weight of what was to come pressing on them all.
He nocked a flaming arrow, drew the bowstring to his ear, and loosed.
The arrow arced high, far above the royal camp. A few half-awake sentries spotted it and laughed, thinking it a stray or misfire.
A heartbeat later, a sound tore through the air—a thousand more arrows following from the other side.
"Enemy attack!" someone shouted—but too late.
Fire rained down. Tents went up in flame. Men screamed as confusion turned to chaos.
Mors turned to the gathered lords.
"Now."
Hoster Tully slammed his sword to his shield. "Go!"
Denys Arryn roared, "For the Vale!"
Brandon Stark lifted his sword. "This will be the hour of the wolf!"
Robert Baratheon bellowed, "With me!"
The gates of Riverrun burst open. The allied host surged out like a breaking tide.
Steel clashed and the world became blood and smoke. The Crownlands, Westerlands, and Ironborn rallied in fury, while the Reachmen scrambled back to meet the men who had been firing from the back. The fields outside the castle burned bright as day.
Mors led the charge with Arthur Dayne, Garth Hightower, and Qerrin Toland beside him. Around them, men died by the dozen. Robert Baratheon's hammer rose and fell, crushing men as he laughed through the slaughter. Denys Arryn's knights gleamed like silver lightning as they tore into the flank.
But the Ironborn hit the Riverlanders hard, their brutal fighting unlike anything the mainland men had faced. The field was chaos—a hundred battles in one.
Then Mors saw him. A tall, dark figure in black plate amidst the Crownlander banners.
"Rhaegar," he murmured, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Found you."
Rhaegar was cutting down Valemen with precision and grace. Even Mors could admit the prince's swordplay was sublime. But not enough. Not this day.
He strode toward him through the melee, calling out, "Cousin! Fancy meeting you here—it feels like destiny!"
Rhaegar turned sharply, disbelief twisting into alarm as he saw the Dornish and stepstones banners join the fray behind Mors. "You! How—this can't be…" He glanced toward the Reachmen's camp—gone, cavalry sweeping through where they should have been. His eyes widened in horror. "That's impossible."
Mors smiled coldly. "Nothing is impossible." He slid Solaris across his back and drew his Valyrian sword. "Today, cousin, I bring you a gift… The gift of death."
Rhaegar's Kingsguard closed in: Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Myles Mooton, Ser Richard Lonmouth—all between them and their prince. Arthur, Garth, and Qerrin met them head-on, steel shrieking.
Mors lunged for Rhaegar. The prince parried once, then barely avoided the second strike. The blade tore through his armor and bit deep. "Valyrian steel…" he gasped, stunned by the wound.
Fury overtook him. "You bastard! You always steal what should be mine!" He struck with flawless precision—thrust, cut, feint—but Mors flowed around each blow like water. Then Mors stepped in close and drove a punch into Rhaegar's jaw. Bone cracked. Blood and teeth flew.
Rhaegar crumpled to his knees, gagging.
Mors tilted his head. "Missing something? No worries, let's even the rest." He slashed once—clean, but very brutal.
Rhaegar screamed, clutching what was left of his face. "My nose! My lip!" His voice slurred through blood and ruin.
Mors looked down with quiet satisfaction. "Better. Now your outside matches your inside." He raised his sword for the killing blow—
—but Myles Mooton threw himself in front of the strike. The blade pierced through him.
"Go… my prince…" Myles gasped, then went still.
Mors kicked the corpse aside. Arthur and Garth closed ranks beside him, Qerrin limping forward, bleeding. Oswell Whent dragged Rhaegar away with a wounded Richard Lonmouth, while Jonothor Darry held the line desperately.
Mors lifted his blade. "No matter who stands before me—Rhaegar dies today."
Then a shout tore across the field.
"Doran!"
Mors froze. He turned just in time to see his brother fall from his horse—an arrow through the neck.
"No…"
He sprinted. Oberyn was already kneeling beside Doran, pressing the wound.
"Hold on, brother! Mors is here, he can heal you!"
Mors fell to his knees, placing his hand over the wound, pouring his aura into it. But his hand began to tremble.
"No," he whispered. "His spine's shattered. Even if I heal him—he won't breathe again."
Oberyn's tears streamed down his face. "No, no, brother!"
Doran's eyes fluttered. "Don't… worry… I die… as the Prince of Dorne…" Then his breath left him.
Oberyn's cry echoed through the din. "Doran!"
Mors didn't move. His brother's blood stained his hands. For the second time in his life, he had failed to save the one he loved most.
Then something broke inside him.
He rose slowly, aura burning through him like wildfire. The ground trembled beneath his feet.
"This ends… now."
He saw the kingsguard trying to escape with the injured Rhaegar, he seized a fallen spear, eyes blazing violet. He hurled it with all his might. The weapon screamed through the air, cutting through sound itself. It struck Rhaegar square in the back, piercing through his chest, horse, and the earth beyond. Both fell in silence.
Mors drew Solaris, his aura flaring so bright it seemed to warp the air around him. Then he moved.
No one could follow. Men simply fell—cut down before they saw him coming. Dozens, then hundreds. Each step left corpses in his wake.
Stannis, fighting nearby, froze at the sight. "He truly is the Champion of the Seven," he whispered in awe. "The Warrior—and the Stranger combined."
The battlefield grew still. Even the Ironborn began to retreat. Quellon Greyjoy fell, coughing blood. Euron Greyjoy raised his bow in desperation—fired—only for Mors to catch the arrow barehanded, turn it, and fling it back. It buried itself in Euron's chest. The man fell before he could even blink.
At last, Mors stood alone in the center of the field. No one dared move.
He raised his voice, deep and cold. "If you do not wish for me to slaughter every last one of you—lay down your arms. This war ends NOW!"
His words rolled like thunder, echoing across the blood-soaked plain.
One by one, soldiers—royalist and rebel alike—dropped their weapons.
Denys Arryn, Brynden Tully, Brandon and Eddard Stark approached cautiously. Stannis followed, eyes burning with conviction.
He stopped beside Mors, then turned to the stunned men around them.
"Rejoice!" he called out. "The Champion of the Seven has come to end this war! As you see, all he desires—" he raised his sword—"is peace!"
Mors blinked, speechless. 'Did I just gain a follower?'
But the battle was over. Silence swept the field, broken only by the moans of the dying and the crackle of distant fire.
The war… had ended.
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Midday — A Few Hours Later
After the royal loyalists' surrender, it took hours to carry the dead, tend the wounded, and restore some order to the battlefield. The Ironborn had fled amid the chaos, but fifteen thousand Westerlands troops and nearly four thousand Crownlanders remained captured. The Reachmen—fifteen thousand strong—were tasked with guarding them, with Lord Mace Tyrell swearing his fealty to the rebel cause. Another ten thousand of the Allied forces stood behind as a deterrent in case the Ironborn returned.
Mors retired to his tent soon after the battle ended, utterly spent. His body ached from the toll of his aura—every muscle trembling, his mind clouded with exhaustion. He barely managed to remove his armor before collapsing onto the cot. Outside, his loyal guards kept silent watch through the long morning, blades ready, ensuring none disturbed their prince's rest.
At midday, what remained of the allied host—twenty-five thousand men—marched toward King's Landing to end the war once and for all. Yet as the lords rode at the head of the column, the air hung heavy with tension. Victory was near, but peace still seemed far.
Robert broke the uneasy silence.
"Then it's settled! I'll be king when this is done. No one's better suited! Isn't that right, Ned? You'll be my Hand—handle all that ruling nonsense while I drink and celebrate!" He laughed, broad and booming.
Denys Arryn frowned. "This still needs discussion. There are others with as much claim as you, Lord Robert."
Robert's smile vanished. "Who? You don't mean that Martell bastard, do you? He's as much Targaryen as the mad one we about to overthrow—I won't have it!"
At that, Stannis turned sharply in his saddle, voice like iron with defiance. "Watch your tongue, brother. Prince Mors deserves your respect. Besides, He's got as much Targaryen blood as our father had—and insulting him is cursing your own blood."
Eddard, Brandon, Brynden, and Denys all shot Robert sharp looks of disapproval.
Oberyn muttered something dark under his breath, hand twitching toward his sword, but Mors stayed silent—his violet eyes fixed on the horizon.
Then, suddenly, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed, as if he could feel something in the distant. "Wait. Stop." His tone turned grim. "Something's wrong."
Robert scowled. "What now? You want to fight me for the crown? Go ahead, I'll—"
"Silence!" Mors's voice cracked like thunder. The command froze everyone in place. The column halted.
He stared toward the distant city, his aura flaring faintly.
"Brace yourselves!"
BOOOOOM!
The world erupted.
A blinding flash consumed the horizon. From where King's Landing stood rose a colossal column of emerald fire—wildfire—mushrooming into the sky. The Red Keep crumbled in an instant. The shockwave rolled across the plains, throwing men and horses to the ground. The sound tore through the air like the scream of gods.
When the roaring finally faded, nothing remained but fire and ruin.
Where once stood the greatest city in Westeros, there was only ash.
Mors stood unmoving, staring into the green inferno. In the crackle of burning wildfire, he swore he could still hear Aerys's mad laughter echoing in his mind. Without a word, he remounted his horse and rode forward.
"This can't be happening..."
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Half an hour later, they reached the edge of the devastation. No walls. No towers. No people… Not even corpses. Just blackened stone and wildfire burning with a life of its own.
"It's gone," Mors whispered.
The lords gathered behind him in silence—Robert, Hoster, Denys, Brandon, Eddard, Oberyn, Arthur, Garth… all of them—all struck dumb by the sight.
Mors turned to them at last. His voice was quiet, but every word carried the weight of finality.
"Dorne and the Stepstones are leaving. Whoever wishes to rule this ruin can have it. From this day forth… we are free."
He looked to the other Dornishmen. "We are independent."
He turned his horse, and his men followed without hesitation.
Robert's voice bellowed after him, half fury, half disbelief.
"What do you mean free? You can't just walk away! I'll be king—me! You hear me, Martell? Get back here, you damned bastard!"
But his shouts faded into the smoke and ash.
And Mors never looked back.
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Early 280 AC – Sunspear, Dorne
A month later, the host finally reached Sunspear. Along the way, they had stopped at the Prince's Pass to free the captive Reachmen. Ser Lewyn, Ser Jeremy, and Prince Manfrey, upon hearing of Doran's death, had joined the solemn procession home.
By then, news of their victory—and the destruction of King's Landing—had spread across the realm. The people of Dorne celebrated wildly as the army marched through the city gates, cheering for their returning heroes. But for the men at the front, the triumph rang hollow.
While the army veered toward the barracks, Mors, Oberyn, Lewyn, Jeremy, Manfrey, Arthur, Garth, Qerrin, and Areo made their way into the court. A smiling Mellario came forward to greet them. She embraced Mors, Oberyn, and Manfrey in turn, offering a warm smile to the rest—but her expression faltered when she noticed their silence.
Her gaze darted from face to face, reading what none dared to say.
Her voice trembled. "Where is Doran?"
Oberyn's composure broke. His jaw clenched, his eyes filling with tears. Mellario followed his gaze—and saw it: the long black coffin draped in the banner of House Martell.
She stumbled back. "No…"
Her cry tore through the hall. "No! No, no, nooo!" She collapsed, unconscious. Arianne, carried by a nursemaid, began to wail.
"Get her to her chambers," Mors ordered softly, kneeling beside Mellario to check her pulse.
Give her something to rest through the night. Arianne as well."
He stood, exhaling slowly. "Guard the coffin day and night. We'll begin preparations for the funeral."
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Later, in the solar, the men sat together—Mors, Oberyn, Lewyn, Manfrey, Arthur, and Jeremy. No one took the prince's seat. A single bottle of Dornish red passed between them before Mors finally spoke.
"Lady Arianne will need a regent," he said quietly. "Uncle Lewyn… I think it should be you."
Oberyn nodded in agreement. Lewyn let out a long sigh, staring at the table. After a moment, he nodded. "Aye."
Silence settled again, deep and heavy.
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The next morning, as preparations for the funeral continued, Ser Ormund Uller—the castellan of Sunspear and Doran's former Hand—burst into the throne room, a letter clutched in his hand.
"Prince Mors!"
Mors turned, alarmed by his tone. "Uncle Ormund, what's happened?"
Panting, Ormund handed him the letter. "Princess Mellario… she's gone!"
Mors's eyes widened. He opened the letter and read quickly—then sank onto a chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
Moments later, Oberyn and Manfrey rushed in. "What happened?" Oberyn demanded. "We heard shouting outside."
Mors didn't answer. He simply passed them the letter. They read it—and both seemed to deflate.
Oberyn slammed the parchment onto the table. "Why?! Why would she leave—and take Arianne? We would've cared for them. We're family!"
Mors shook his head, his voice weary. "She was raised in Norvos. To her, this life is poison. She wrote that others would demand Arianne be replaced—or worse. She'd rather raise her daughter far from it all… even if it means rescinding her claim."
Lewyn entered in time to hear the last words. He kicked over a chair, his face twisted with grief.
Ormund turned to Oberyn. "Prince Oberyn, by right of succession—"
"No," Oberyn cut in sharply. "Elia comes next. We should be preparing to support her ascension."
Lewyn exhaled slowly, then straightened, standing tall. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost weary. "Oberyn… she married the Crown Prince. Under Martell law, that disinherits her… You know this."
Oberyn shook his head, fierce and unyielding. "Then forget it. I want nothing to do with the throne." His voice faltered despite himself. "I can't. I… I need to leave. For a while. Mors—"
Mors looked up, meeting Oberyn's gaze and seeing the strain there—raw, desperate.
"That's right," Mors said hesitantly. "We can change the law for Elia. Who's going to stop us? And besides…" He gave a hollow half-smile. "I already have a kingdom."
Lewyn, who seemed to have aged years in the span of a breath, shook his head. "Yes… but do you truly want her to carry this burden? After everything she's already endured?"
His eyes moved between Oberyn and Mors who both flinched at that. "Oberyn—are you certain? You're turning away from a kingdom. From your birthright."
Oberyn managed a small, bittersweet smile. "I'm certain. And we both know it." He glanced at Mors. "He was born for this more than any of us… I'd rather put our future in his hands."
Mors lowered his head into his hand, his voice barely more than a murmur. "It wasn't supposed to be me," he said. "Why did it have to be me? Doran... you weren't supposed to die."
The hall had gone still. Servants and guards who'd overheard now stood motionless, watching.
All eyes turned to Mors—Oberyn's, Lewyn's, Manfrey's, Ormund's. Even the household guards looked at him with expectation.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then Mors straightened in his chair, meeting their gazes.
His voice was quiet, but resolute.
"Very well."
A heartbeat of silence—then the room erupted.
"Prince Mors!"
"The Sun of Dorne!"
"The Champion of the Seven!"
Oberyn smiled faintly through the tears still shining in his eyes.
"The Sun of Dorne... is back."
End of Arc IV — Twilight of the Sun